Simple, subdued, the flakes
Are lowered like marionettes
On slow strings
Making their peace with
Puddling spring
One man told me
He’d seen four seasons
In a single day
I thought
I have seen the passing seasons
In the face of a man
He strums his song like a gem
Losing flames of copper
His touch is tender
As I've never seen it
So I submit, I am fragile
As I hate to be
I’m on some couch
Turning internally and
Fleeing like a gypsy
My function is yet unknown
The critic cannot understand
The love of the artist
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