Winds picked up wet leaves
all a scatter they flew
Left to ruin
Under wheels a shatter
And trees with no eyes to stare
at night I'll hear moans
In dark ponds
leaves left to ruin
I seek the harvest moon
Hid in grim skies
the mystic fox has died
or he chose not to advise
And on the hill of seasons
this lonely hill of mine
Winds picked up wet leaves
wicked it flies tonight
When the moon shows
I will know its device
Of Autumn's morose
And I will surely cry
Left to ruin
I need to find love why
Another season's gone by
My heart seems all a lie
Comments
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Powerful sadness eminates through every pore in this! Wintry onset does bring on a sense of the morose in me as well. Magic of that Fox might still be the saving grace if he can be found though.This dark season too shall come to pass,roll through it with ease my friend. Be of strong will and good cheer.
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