Words are dumb
while weaving
the tale of woe
of those crushed autumn leaves.
Did their voice vanish
in dry wind?
Seeking solace in coma?!
Found once I
the angelic care
of dawn
dignified them
to the sky of purity
of dew drops.
Yet light was dark?
Did morning warble
mourning melodies?
Tomb there
in the womb of love?
How did they fall on
the bed of thorns?
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