An orange sky
beneath the tree,
I sit and ponder
what of we?
Will we last?
Will it end?
The wind shall blow,
the tree branch bends.
Dipping slowly
and brushing my shoulder,
the leaves whisper,
"Not yet is it over."
I awaken warm
and covered in bed.
The sky is still black.
You're asleep at my back.
Whatever became
of the orange day
and the wise words
the tree did say?
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