This mist is a mourning veil
draped over the world
but the gleeful leaves
cannot be dimmed or quieted,
blazoning with gladness they
form your funeral arch.
A jet trail in the indigo sky
heralds your path of ascension
and the falling leaves remind us:
only a frail stem holds us
above the earth
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Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
