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The young spring leaf
is inevitably going to fall into autumn
as old and brittle metaphor
You could simply blow it off at will
Yet when you breath it in
there might be some invisible sentiment
the everlasting touch or gentle stroke
that young leaf could not possibly care
not alone offer just as at ease as wind
That is the mind in the dusk
trying to stretch beyond our frail bodies
into the nightfall of love
hoping for a dew full of spring morning
wakes up in your arms of sunlight
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