The dead leaves dance like withered witches;
Teetering, swirling,
Dropping and curling,
And crackling in the dried-up ditches.
Head them whisper as we go past.
How each dry lip
Rustles gossip!
Do you hear them saying our love won’t last?
The dead leaves dance like withered witches;
Teetering, swirling,
Dropping and curling,
And crackling in the dried-up ditches.
Head them whisper as we go past.
How each dry lip
Rustles gossip!
Do you hear them saying our love won’t last?
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