HARD TRUTH/
SOFT DREAMING
In the morning, when the whitewashed light
of a new sun still paints the dewy trees - this
early in Spring - the bare branches seem crying
out for something. 'Something to accompany us,
please, kind sir.' A sort of cloak, a dress of leaves.
In the morning, when the whitewashed light
of a new sun still paints the dewy trees - this
early in Spring - the bare branches seem crying
out for something. 'Something to accompany us,
please, kind sir.' A sort of cloak, a dress of leaves.
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