***
Sonnet I
I hang with you, upon the homely bough
That sways gently to the autumnal breeze
Whose soft whisper and age-bringing blow
Has turned our face yellow, and brought the trees
A gown of colored leaves that fall until
They’re, buried under the entombing snow
And now, the mourning oak, is standing still
With her empty branches that weigh with woe
Such is the deed of time upon our fate
A looting wind that shakes the leafy trees
And takes with it all that were animate
Green leaves rustling with the joyous breeze
And here, within our cold coffins we lie
Yet our souls, blessed with warmth, will not die
Lulleh
***
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