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The autumn
Mud the path has become. The trees still brightly dressed. The recent rain perfumes the air. A million leaves lie on the ground.
As the mist descends, the secret wood ignites. The enchantment is divine, time has no end.
Wandering in the woods, stealing from the past, picking thyme gently making tea.
Rarely does silence remain in this fascinating stream. Caress all the knowledge in the arms of now.
Chloe Douglas, 1991
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