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Picture Credits: http://maplegrove.com/maple-syrup-story.asp
The slender maples, clothed in red
Bow before the autumn wind.
The clouds are growing overhead;
Upon them, flakes of white are pinned.
The year is drawing to a close,
Drifting now toward that night,
And behind it the world goes,
Dying out without a fight.
Will we even see it go?
As winter falls upon the land
Our lives will end in ice and snow...
Or maybe with a white-hot brand.
Nothing in this world can save
What is destined for the grave.
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