In the wind

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In the wind, dead leaves are flying,

Drifting gold on silver water,

The river running to the sea.

 

Blackbirds chase among the branches,

The fruit that shrivels on the vine,

In the wind, dead leaves are flying.

 

Autumn sun sinks, pale and failing,

Like dreams that gleam just out of reach,

Drifting gold on silver water.

 

Though last beams end their flight in shadow,

Hand in hand, we watch till night falls,

The river running to the sea.