It was not autumn yet,
but I witnessed how the leaves did leave.
I watched every bit fell down,
and how sad the trees had become.
It was not autumn yet,
but I was seeing red and gold.
The blood of the treasures I kept,
now long gone; they were swept.
It was not autumn yet,
for I could still feel the winter's air.
But the breeze became much colder,
even when there came summer.
It was not autumn yet,
but what season could this be?
When everything, so light, so pure,
would become a perfect tragedy.
Feel free to interpret the poem,
but if you were to ask me, I am simply referring to those who left me behind.
