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Leaf Of Seasons

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A canvas of braille
waiting for the touch,
no longer an empty room,

but the ash remembers
what the eyes forgot,
a prickle of frost,

written in prophesy
reaching out for fingers,
across a leaf of seasons,

tracing the corridors
of the cold air,
waiting for the touch,

a canvas of braille
capturing the imagery,
with a lingering presence.

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