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My old lonely house filled with the smell
of burnt fallen leaves. Sound of passing
birds' wings...
Trembling, oldness, twilight...
Candle is fading, books, old photos are in
disorder on the floor.
Wind is throwing naked black branches
into the window.
I'll not fall asleep this night.
At the dawn behind a pale veil,
I'll see like in black white mute cinema
Those who are long ago passed.

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