Old leaves fly,
rattling together like bones of the dead.

The wind whispers to us,
the past, the present, the future,
but no matter how hard we strain,
we cannot hear.

The bare trees wave with the whispers,
their leaves flying, always flying,
never to return to the soft comfort of their mother branches.

The flowers die,
wilting away into nothingness,
their spring songs of youth and prosperity silenced.

The sun sets,
promising not to return for many moons,
leaving us in perpetual darkness.

The birds leave,
their cries echoing in the empty world,
“Gone is the world we know and love,
new adventures do we seek!”

And all we have left,
is the old leaves,
rattling together like bones of the dead.