don't tell me,
that you get sick of living...
when the summer's so forgiving...
although we have stolen
all of the things that we thought
we had owned then...
have disappeared...have disappeared.
all these things in flavour...
won't do you no favours ...
when the summer's light is fragrant
with scents of returning...
you relent, you resent, now you're burning
for nothing to change....
"last good day of the year." cousteau
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