Poetry

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Autumn memories, are slow to die,
They are fallen leaves cluttering the roadside,
Every year there is a slippery breeze,
Wet pavement, red and yellow.

The great sacrifice, their souls, they die,
A tree stands naked and alone,
Mourning loss, with autumn’s easy song,
Slow violin, and deep sad cello.

These sad hulks of nature, dying trees,
The innocent green has faded away,
Waiting the end, when they freeze,
Choked by dry cold, and blowing snow,

Ignorant of the coming apocalypse,
These trees don’t pass to another world,
Its is not the end of this music piece,
But the end of the way its been known.

damulfo

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