The summer is a desert,
between mountains lavish with joys of Spring and Fall.
I look across that bleak and lonely wasteland,
seeing no redemption at all.
I cannot think how I will cross without you,
to reach the golden hillsides of dreams.
I cannot imagine not to look too hard at what that means.
Time, the enemy of the timeless,
must compensate at those it bereaves.
Waiting until once more,
we can share the blaze of turning leaves.
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