literature

thoughts of one passing by

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Literature Text

the colours stride as morning peaks
in golden plight it reignites
and bathes the world in solemn light

ebon tusks of morning dew
pierce the viewer's eye, so slowly
they dwindle before the rising warmth

a rustling goes there, whisp'ring tales
of ancestry unsung;
it goes they have taken place 
right beneath these cherry trees

there, like countless blades of grass I bow
my head before your grace, my dear
in a sea of nature's beauty

I only twitch so much as once
and twice and thrice you slice my chest
with a blade as thin as grass; your face
untroubled, still, unchanged, and watching
as I scatter, and mix
with the morning dew

so many tales remain unsung 
will mine be heard, or be sung only
by the rustling, wishp'ring wind?
that I question as I fall 
into a bed of blades of grass
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