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Your Schizophrenia - Lullaby to the passing summer
The branches of the old garden are heavy with the burden of fruit. Green and yellow apples are drawn to the fading sun, hoping to receive its tender kiss and pink blush. Butterflies and wasps feast on overripe plums. Summer is coming to an end. The grasses are withered, scorched by the sun, trampled by travelers. The apples again obeyed an unknown force, beckons them to leave their native branches, to fall dead at the roots... Their souls are spicy aromas woven into the evening air... Heart breaks with sweet melancholy, anticipating autumn. And the sun of dying August mends the soul wounds with a gold needle. A soft veil of twilight falls from the heavens, covering the tired green with a gray haze, and after that the darkness turns everything into black shadows carved in the navy blue skies. August powerlessly drops the head on the stones, and the crickets cry, burying the decayed summer. And the stars are whispering again in the sleepy skies. Let the silence be filled with the lullabies of the dead constellations. Tears of dawn no longer resurrect wild flowers that have lost the seeds of their thoughts in the winds. It seems to me that my soul is nothing more than a trampled weed that has long forgotten about summer, about the wondrous stars and the crickets tales.
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Tags : summer, that, are, with, soul
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