Et digt / A poem: Within the moving leaves.

In the silent morning,
I walk
Along a twisting path.

The trees whisper an ancient song,
from within the moving leaves

The sirens are calling,
A call that crashes,
Crashes upon deaf shores
Evermore!
Evermore!
cries Poe’s Raven

Along twisting paths I walk,
Singing,
In unison
With the voices within the moving leaves.

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