Wandering
The leaves are the ones guiding me
In the forest, there are so many to follow.
Some hang wearily as if
They would like to fall on me.
Others turn upwards so that
I am forced to pull my eyes up.
Still, others are formless.
Motionless. They meditate
On the evening's window as if it were
A mirror. A few die out.
They are not worth talking about.
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