Leaves
Hanging tresses,
Colored dresses,
Dancing to and fro as one
Tossing, turning,
Ever yearning
For a swath of midday sun
Singing, sighing,
Sometimes crying;
From their lofty limbs, they call
Rustling, blowing,
Never knowing
When they are at last to fall
Green or dying,
Still or flying,
All must beckon to the breeze
Softly swaying,
Always playing
Simple music of the leaves.
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