The leaves that fall are the leaves that leave,
And the leaves that fly are the leaves that left.
The leaf I pressed between pages to die,
Is from our tree that had already dried.
Like paint, like pen, like ink and good men,
It stained and maimed the pages I kept,
I picked myself up from the grass and I left,
to seek the leaf of a tearful bamboo.
I picked it off before it fell and it flew,
I had killed it, I knew,
But as I couldn’t pick you
picking leaves would have to do.
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