Gale

Outside the mirrors, the dark, it fell.
The day seems squeezing the head into a sleepy dead.
The seagulls are swirling, at the approaching rain,
the leafs with their yellow faces, angry rustling
in the wind blowing away.
It is dark as night, clouds flowing in the sky, like black kites,
fading away in the murky air
The wet lamps, light the flooding oaks,
The day is wearing raining coat
shivering white and pale
by the winter raging gale.

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