Now Autumn leaves are twirling, restless ghosts
reminding me with sizzling whispers of the after life
of Summer days, I won’t compare our love as such.
After death, more beautiful the leaf lies in the mud.
I won’t compare our love to a dead tree leaf though.
Decay is in the air, the rot sets in. More beautiful
the leaf becomes. Till all is gone, I watch each day.
I can’t compare our love to a dead tree leaf in the mud.
Next Spring the Maple will be green again; for us,
there won’t be new leaves on the uprooted tree.