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15 November The jeweled air: the clear sun: you look for the flowering apricot tree, and smell the bitter scent of hawthorn in your heart. But the thorn has dried out, and skeletal plants weave black threads into the clear blue sky, into the empty vault of heaven, and the hollow earth rings with every footstep. Silence, all around: from far away you hear only the gusting of the wind, and from the orchards and gardens, the fragile descent of leaves. It is the cold summer of the dead. ...

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