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autumn poem

a little peach in the orchard grew
do not turn your head
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
she was a beauty in the days
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
with her hair flaying wildly
lady, your heart has turned to dust
musing, between the sunset and the dark
there is a city, builded by no hand
why do
why do you always stand there shivering

 



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