A crisp and solemn early autumn
with fallen leaves,
shivering hands,
deathly quiet.
Then heavy breathes,
searching for some kind of warmth.

Yet it has gone,
the warmth of summer,
yes it has fallen away with the leaves,
and he has breathed his last.

Shivered hands do quake under this cold,
deathly quiet,
darkness.

Yet he has gone,
his life,
fallen with the leaves,
another death in this crisp and solemn early autumn.