Being forlorn ...
by Orbindu Ganga


Feuillemort falls in dust

As the autumn arrives,

Looking from the window

Years have gone by,

Trees have no choice

To shed their veins,

Shivering in the cold

Pain had a name written,

Each year as autumn saunters

Waiting are we for the spring,

To see the particles of renaissance

Never to see a speck ...


a black line


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