|
The yellow leaves fly with the wind |
|
Covering the graves below |
|
The willow |
|
The old man stands in the doorway |
|
Wiping his |
|
Eyes with soiled sleeve |
|
He kneels at the foot of the |
|
Graves |
|
And touches the time-worn epitaph |
|
Blessed are the |
|
Pure in heart, |
|
For they shall see God |
|
The grief of |
|
Loss claws at his bleak soul |
|
The wind carries the first |
|
Freezing rain |
|
With the rain appears a light |
|
The |
|
Bright ray of the cold autumn day |
|
It illuminates the cliffs |
|
Beyond the field |
|
And casts vast shades upon the soaked |
|
Grass |
|
The man recoils from his distant thoughts |
|
The |
|
Rain flows along his furrowed cheeks |
|
He stares at the warmth |
|
Of caressing light |
|
And weeps the unseen tears with the |
|
Rain |
|
He touches the grass with the palm of his |
|
Hand |
|
And lets the wind sway him towards the past |
|
He |
|
Follows the path of forgotten oblivion |
|
And vanishes in the |
|
Rain on his dying day |
