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The trees let go without apology. One leaf, then another, gold coins spent on the wind. The air turns sharp like a bitten apple. Smoke rises from somewhere unseen, and the sky lowers its gray wool. I walk slower now, listening to the ground accept what falls. Everything is ending, and it is not cruel— just bright, just brief, just a hand opening before the snow.
The prompt is DeepSeek AI's response to this request:
"Write a free-verse poem about autumn in English."