Kim Sindberg
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The wind is an old trumpet

Chasing the streets

 

What good is taking on

Your best suit

And walk the streets

Searching for the wasted years?

 

The pavement is wrapped

In a blanket of yellow leaves

 

You whisper the truth

As green turns into red

Remembering faces

You think you never saw

 

This is the gateway to November

An island of silence

 

And yet:

A phone is buzzing in your shoe

 

But you do not hear it

From under the blanket

From your dream of

A bottle of white wine

Waiting to be mixed

With a bottle of summer

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