Winter has come,
The world is quiet.
So much is the left autumn still
Hymning its revering tune.
So little is the playground voice
In the tail of the sunlight’s path, clouding away.
And the river has no memories; it keeps turning.
Turning all the sadness and happiness,
Turning both the unloved and the beloved
Washed away in streams.
And now you could probably say, hey, friend,
I’ve forgotten, I have, at least,
In this seaon.
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