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Perhaps for my sins I shall be made a red geranium – Oscar Wilde

The amber sun rising behind the mountains,

Warms frigid grass of a quaint village garden.

And geraniums bloom there in bounty,

Among anemones, monkshood, and primulas.

A mongrel dog strolls carefully on a narrow trail,

To find way back to his home,

Up he treads on terraces of sedimentary rock,

And disappears behind the next hilly turn.  

Behind cedar trees and rhododendron bushes,

Mountain peaks have been set ablaze by sun. 

And on a distant precipice smoke rising   

From a wooden house smells of pine resin.

As geraniums diffuse lemony mango scent in air,

It colludes with sweet aroma of apples.

Its trees are heavy with magnified fruits,

On each end of blossoms and branches.   

A courtyard is filled with apples, 

Cherishing in his hands a thin man,  

Shouts to his friend picking apples.  

On another hill and makes sure that, 

His best harvest goes to the cider-apple heap.

As the hour of eventide arrives in the glade,

All bushes along the steep terrace fields,

Are immersed inch-deep with frosty spines.

Receding sunlight act as a filament in these,   

And illuminates the entire valley at night.        

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