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Yellow leaves coloured the dark land,
All the trees weary in fall.
The forest turned brown, the nice voiced
and plumed birds aren't chatter.

Funeral of trees,
this is autumn.
Funeral of trees,
this is my sap.

Limb cracks up under my feet,
This soft vioce, this is my all.
The hour of passing is the fall,
which the winter cover over.

The scent of fire,
smoke bates my nose,
Dead trees body have
cremated somewhere,
The rain will graft the
fire, and the
wind will raise from the ashes
and heave them high.

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