Autumn's when leaves turn red,
strikingly beautiful and then it fades.
Glorious a moment it may be,
attracting the attention of one too many.
The parting season,
I seem to see.
Where even leaves have to part,
with their beloved trees.
Little by little,
the cold sets in.
And there it it,
the tree is naked as can be.
Cold and lonely,
there you see.
The tree is stripped,
tortured in the wind.
Melancholy?
Yes it is.
But in a time like this,
think the opposite.
What can be strong
if its never been weak?
What then is glory,
if there's never been naught.
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