The picture faded in a pile of dust
As everything else does after many
suns shine on it and color it rust
till it discolors in the night of mind
How old, how precious
It doesn’t matter
It was there and then it left its place
for new things, as the trees broke
into new blossoms of love
You pick up the pieces, your hands recoil
from the dust of a thousand storms
that blew away the fields of love
and left a scatter of memories in wake
How it hurt or made you bleed
It doesn’t matter
It was there and then it left its place
for new faces, as the lips broke
into new smiles of coquetry
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