The leaves of the tree that are trembling draping the delicate décolleté as a feather is what its fringes

feel or green that grows greener by a darkling the color of nothing does not descend nor yield to its yellowing a season but old as the sun whose light's listening illuminates of golden ascension to brighten the day another vanished wasn't it once and only a moment that it appeared while becoming sentient derives no death of its dim destruction no end of its rhymes nor no closure spent and alludes always an everpresent

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