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
Crying red,
Dying, dead.
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’.