A November Walk

Out on a November morning

Dancing Belles in the trees

Turning slowly, swaying,

Everything in crawling motion here

The atmosphere, two, three drops of milk

In a tall crystal glass

Then a light, a ray, golden, fights through

Reflecting on silk

Illuminating pearly white dresses

Beaded, translucent

Draped loosely on dead limbs

Past life all around me

Brittle death beneath my feet

hollowly echo things long gone

No sounds

Just losses


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