I suppose the trees, in retrospect,
Should have attended my neglect
To time’s subtle scythe with due respect.
Reminding that nature always calls,
And she who answers always falls.
A premonition of my future
Abandoned casually by trees
Autumn leaves, as they led
Falling echoes of my life,
Fleeting, fled. Underfoot
On which to tread, and I,
Despondent, sighing said:
‘There lies everything,
Don’t by it’s beauty, be misled.
The whole world and all within ends thus:
These dying leaves are us’.