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  • R.T.

When in Autumn We Sang

A failed love is like a wound sustained:

in its health there left is chronic ail.

I find hope in thoughts regained, but like a story

this love has waned; the moon fades

but clouds in sun remain

to block from me both rays and rain;

and so to feel the grey above and within,

I lament that had I not been myself now,

happiest I might've been:

in circumstances changed.