In the fall
red angels flutter and fall from the maples
Golden drops drip drop from the birch tree
Catching the last of the light of the evening
All that is considered good and pure fallen
To be spared in a melancholic way
A skeletal hand painted in the sky by our own godly hands
to bring about the foreseen winter

And I weep for all the raking reapers
for each his own raking reaper