It was that season again,
falling maple, melancholic breeze,
the season, when life would freeze
back, when she would look outside
to see shades of brown masking death
beauty masking fret and,
she would smile
The cold wind playing with her hair,
will speak to her
“Come here, little girl”
She will open her beady eyes,
run towards the forests,
away from the wolves, cries
She would dance and dance,
until spring comes again,
She would dance till flowers bloom
till reality would whisper,
“Wake up, little girl, time to go”
But she doesn’t want to go,
She wants to be the dancing angel she is
she does not want to wake up,
with chapped lips.
with eyes looking at its closed lids,
She wanted to see colors, colors so bright,
Not she wears, a porcelain white,
She wants to sleep
not wake up,
to know everything has an end,
that autumn is the beauty of death,
That she no more dreams
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