Other Nations, Other Colours


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It’s just as well, sometimes,
To see no trace of the storm.
To crunch through fallen leaves
With joy. Not to note the forlorn
Branches, that say nothing of thieves,
Or the berries that cling. In foreign climes,
It’s best not to notice, sometimes.

Such clouds that haunt the blues
Are best seen in sunny skies.
Across the path, just feet away,
Another berry tree lies.
Standing, still, you can hear it say
‘Leaves, or berries, you have to choose.
Thus much to win, thus much to lose.’

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