Little leaves in those trees,
A mystical mystery to me.
A tiny breeze against those leaves,
A shimmering memory.
Must we wonder why we must cry,
Why must we try,
Why must we die,
A shining mystery to be.
These falling leaves, and swaying trees,
Endanger me.
But once they fall, it gets colder, the trees get older,
And now we are alone.
Destruction at its best, a lovely little test,
I miss these trees before me.
Their stubby, dead, trunks lay at my feet,
And all I am left to do is wonder in defeat.
