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Midnight Choir MAG
In spring nights, a dense fog
rises from the woods.
Made up from the sound of wood frogs,
it floods the neighborhoods.
Received with a closed door,
windows shut and locked.
They don’t hear the frog’s score.
The sound of spring was simply stopped.
Shut windows shut pipes,
no audience.
They pack up on nights
that lack a dance,
yet frogs hold no gripes
with me or you.
They’d sooner forgive
than give forever “adieu”.
So listen close,
relive, realize,
those raspy tones,
amphibious lives,
spread every peace on planet earth,
get less respect than what they're worth.
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