“An October Evening’s Ligature” (الصلاة المغرب في الخريف)

Silver tracked across the brilliance of the Sun’s wounds. Dirge of the magpie. Along crisp, dry wind floating - the beckoning call. Thither do I go. Outside, red leaves fall. Through cold air, I march to my own forehead's Autumn. Crossing the portal - raised hands, splash of cold water. Now in audience. Sloughed off …

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