November moon sailing across November skies.
My breath is silver fire
while my fingers burn
Deep inside my pockets.
The rooks are no longer visible
Among the tangled branches.
So I follow the stars homeward,
Always tracking slightly westwards.
My breath is silver fire
while my fingers burn
Deep inside my pockets.
The rooks are no longer visible
Among the tangled branches.
So I follow the stars homeward,
Always tracking slightly westwards.
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