fragment 97
by kvennarad
It comes skipping down,
flicked by that hasty gust,
the old, brown leaf,
the last copper coin from autumn gone,
lost in our careless, grey town.
Forget spring; fade.
It comes skipping down,
flicked by that hasty gust,
the old, brown leaf,
the last copper coin from autumn gone,
lost in our careless, grey town.
Forget spring; fade.