Theres nothing to be heard,
nor nothing to be seen.
As weary minds lay
on white linen sheets.
Sound seems to be shushed
by the gently howling wind.
The trees bend
ever so gracefully
to the unrhytmic musical hymn.
The bitter cold
sending shivers through grounds spine.
The dull light getting closer
to the low horizen line.
The grass,
the trees,
the sky seen today.
Will only be an image
lost in a dark haze.
What is all
lives for one more day.
What once was
has nothing more to say.
Yet there are still many things
to be, my friend.
While the old quietly waits
to be born again.
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