Beyond old windows,
Leaves of green
Leaves made of sorrow
No rustling sound

No sound at all.

Only the slow, painful dance
Of a muted scream
A scream of longing
Longing that would wither them down.

Still, I hear nothing.

Through the thick staring glass
Just the swaying, and swaying
And the crying of the leaves
And I'll watch and wait

Till the last one leaves . . .