Trees arouse from their trances
As last leaves gyre to the ground
And the wanton north wind advances
On that terrible, tiny, drowsing town
Where day flashes, a dying flame,
And night lands—no noise, no sound,
Only repetition, randomless eternal game
Of the wind and the moon and the stars
And the clouds, always and ever the same.
Across the lake, the lingering drone of cars
Going nowhere, really, on random drives,
Crunching under tires leaves, falling lives.
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