Soft chirping, the crickets lay
in the dew-covered grass:
they softly sing.
Stark rustling,
the leaves fall down to the cold ground:
harshly rustling.
A child slowly walks,
kicking the leaves along the way,
she sweetly dreams.
Everything dies to winter,
growing cold and grey.
The wind HOWLING for winter.
There is no life left:
it's all ice. Spring will never come:
everything is dead.
















Devious Comments
--
"If I could be anything I would be your tear, so I could be born in your eye, live down your cheek, and die on your lips."
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My Poetry Page [link]
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