POETRY

 

Fall

the leaves on the trees
slowly, slowly they swing
already curved yellow
and faded soft

a bird, reticent
comes between them
as if the tree
would be a birdcage

she my dear, regards us
as the autumn intones once more
and the rain grumbles upon us
like the people's misery

In the neighbor's yard
there is a poor young butcher
with a flute that cries on his lips
like an orphan

 

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