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Even the stars,
ever-shining; -burning;
-twinkling in the dark,
must fall, albeit inwardly.

As would a million suns,
the autumn leaves
would plunge (from trees),
covering dying grass.

I would lie there,
atop piles of decay,
awaiting a traveler,
who had nothing to gain.

“O Traveler,”
I would speak,
softly, with heart,
“Set me free.”

That traveler,
be they in rags,
or velvet and silk,
may spare a moment.

Should they pass,
I would wait more,
yearning for warmth,
yet finding none.

Should another come,
say, would I,
to that man or lady,
“O Traveler.”

If freedom they lack,
they would say,
not unkindly,
“I cannot, Friend”

Should I be named,
though unknown,
by Traveler,
deliverance I would have.

In response, though words I lack,
I would sing a song;
many, in fact.

Traveler and Friend,
we two, together,
would stay forever,
in love’s embrace.