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When we come to wake,
on a summers morn,
and see the bright red apples,
hanging from the trees.
And smell the dew,
on the grass, and in the air.
We come to think,
what once was here,
and waht perished,
in the shadow under that apple tree.
Come to look much closer,
at what was growing,
and has now died.
For our life is so tender,
and fragile.
Yet we never stop to think
about what is obvious.
One night we will fall asleep,
and never awake,
to see the rising of another sun.
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