Leaves are turning
outside my pane
yellow toned
to awaken our brains
the traffic humming
with nothing to gain
the world turning
as time stands still
yet, only for a moment
the clock strikes two
Some are leaving
some are coming
those remaining
pick up the drumming
race, race
to a better place
ding, dong
the clock strikes thrice
the end is near
—where are all,
the tender hands?
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