Languor Leaves the Leaves
Languorously the old man leafs
Through pages of the well read book.
The wind outside moves the soft leaves
Above the meandering brook.
Unfulfilled, he turns and leaves.
Languor Leaves the Leaves
Languorously the old man leafs
Through pages of the well read book.
The wind outside moves the soft leaves
Above the meandering brook.
Unfulfilled, he turns and leaves.
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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