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This
This leaf is still golden, but look at its veins -
Only faint trace of a pattern remains.
It swirled in wind too angry and strong
To have had its beauty last too long.
Changing of season has taken effect
Leaving it subject to passing neglect.
And this? Oh, it can't weather this.
This bitter cold absence of bliss
Will send it away in a coming breeze
To land alone in a churchyard to freeze.
