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In Autumn, maybe, is hidden Spring,

purple flowers under yellow leafs,

but about it, dear, you know nothing

nor broken heartedness, woes and griefs.


I’m not bad, maybe, as you think,

there is, maybe, more good in me,

but about me, dear, you know nothing

and you won’t even try to see.

Posted by Herc

Živim pišem dišem Jedem molim volim


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