the clouds have come back
with their voices
they beg an audience
they will give the trees their mask
in oppression clothe them
more like death
this complete surrender
to the serenity of sky
more like death
than sleepy peace
I suppose we all need rest
even endless encores end.
trees do stop and whisper
secrets well hidden in mirth
make plain their stories now
when the white skies still
the heavy air.
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