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the falling by irras han


t h e   f a l l i n g

b y    I r r a s   H a n

All day you studied
the composition of autumn
light. Rays, glares,
the abstraction of colors and shapes -
still warm blooded but growing faint -
stained like old flames.

In a half-mast vineyard,
the season drained a small ocean of green
to offer gold fingers of reefs;
slow decays, light shivers -
the procession of a last breath
who knows death.

You teach the mind to reach deep,
to inhabit sorrow like water
would note, in the back of the eyes,
every subject that walked
the length of the wave
then walked away.



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