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Falling Apples

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Coldness of gusts touch the apples,
Whispering a mellow song into the kernel.
Bunched together,two or three or four,
Hanging in air and quilted in greenish,
Hands pick them into baskets.
Some fall down through the transparent chest of air,
Pounded into wounds the juice tickles from the peel like tears.
Alone on the earth they lie,
And alone they die.





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