Tell me, you city of resounding solitutude, how many leaves shall fall until I breathe your wintry air again? Because, my trees are replicas, fakes, pinks that could not pass in your skyscraper walls. How I long to be wrapped in their embrace one more, and hear a language that is more sweet song than dance track. Still, my feet will, in time -- -- one leaf, one tap, -- one tap, one leaf, as I peel it off my forehead, where your winter sun last kissed me, coldly.
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