The leaves are so green
I hate to see them turn gold
Soon the trees will be bare

As we turn old
Till our happiness turns to cold
And the air grows dark

The older trees will look from afar
This is why I find poets beautiful
They bring out the best by far

In a lover who withers like leaves
But has the fragility of branches
A laugh sibilant as crackling violets

But in a heart that is ice
Only fiery gold remains
The atmosphere ethereal dissipates

And the autumnal paths have no shade
Withdraw from the canopies
As the dazzling Sun loses red colour at dawn