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Burn the orange lines of this wooden hand
Cold roots drinking in long dead leaves
A bitter wind bites the tips of old Oaken boughs
And songs of winter sing to the trees
Autumn leaves and with it suns heat
Allowing the crystal splendor of patterned frost
Twisted nude the trees become
Standing strong above the colors lost
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Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
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