Autumn

The tops of trees are crowned with fire:
yellow, red — their brief desire.
Leaves falling, falling, one by one,
the year grows old, the warmth is done.

A sadness pulls them, soft, profound,
down, down — to meet the ground.
They don’t expect miracles anymore —
everything’s happened all before.

The wind sweeps them through fields and sand,
to borders cold, to no-man’s land.
It whispers low, with voice of bone,
“You fall — but never fall alone.”

The earth receives them, dark, wind-blown,
all that returns — will feel like home.
In sacred sleep, they dream again —
forever, ever — leaf and rain.

09.10.2025