Memory Stands Like A Scarecrow.
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As I wonder, where the nice fragrance of love is gone,
That spilled from the crimson flower of life.
Now when I sweep away the broken glass of the past,
The memory haunts back doing icicle,
In the inner dome of my mind.
Memory stands like a scarecrow,
In the middle of my path,
And diverts me to the realities of the present,
I walk past the doors of an empty heart,
And counts the fallen willow leaves.
Bu şiiri puanla
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