Her veins flow
With only the finest wine,
Trickling down into the first day of autumn.
I have spoken with the leaves;
They told of lost treasures -
Treasures that glisten in the sun
But appear dull to the human eye.
Only a retina chased by fire
Will ever have the ability to see.
On the seventh minute to sundown
Her eternal sadness will hide.
And she will be no more
When my eyes meet her demise.
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