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The wind is a phonograph,
Of I, the lonely lost
It plays,
Haunting
Seeking, lingering

It plays of us
Of long lost love.
It must,

For my heart whimpers
But laughs…
Then soars…
And dies…

Trees summon the wind
Reverberating

With ears to witness
And to hear is with eyes
All but one stop…
Time.
Flies.