A river that stops running becomes mud,
and so do we,
a soul that stops changing
does not become what it was born to be.

There comes that time of the year again,
when trees know better
to see what has been hidden by 
the breeze and the blaze,
one must undress the unnecessary weight,
to face the days that get shorter 
there is no other path to ride
may death and rebirth be blessed 
by a light on the inside