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

The amber sun rising behind mountains,

Warms frigid grass of a quaint garden.

And geraniums bloom there in bounty,

Among anemones and primulas.

A mongrel dog strolls carefully

On a steep trail to find his way back , 

Up he treads on terraces of round rocks,

And disappears behind the next hilly turn.  

Behind oaks and rhododendron bushes,

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,

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 cider-apple heap.

As the hour of eventide arrives,

All bushes along the terrace fields,

Are immersed inch-deep in frosty spines.

Receding sunlight act as a filament,   

And illuminates entire valley at night.        

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