Jun 2021
Like a sopping wet leaf,
Floats in the northern oceans,
As if it is a single drop of blood
In an autumn wheat field,
The echoes of reality reach deaf ears
As the final leaf falls,
Silently,
From its hibernating host.
Floats in the northern oceans,
As if it is a single drop of blood
In an autumn wheat field,
The echoes of reality reach deaf ears
As the final leaf falls,
Silently,
From its hibernating host.
In a continuation of the last note, very few house flies have died since them, none of which were intentional murders.
