One more round face is added
To this branching lineage.
Time, in shaking down what swings
In its autumnal rage
Is fate's accursed hour, wind-chilled
Looked back through, unfulfilled.
Of all sweetness, left to sour.
Of that, past blushed for it
In a squeezy peachiness
Left out a hand, unbit.
Including your own, dear child.
Mist-graved, for it compiled.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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