I breathe in my autumn.
The spring is gone.
Where is its happy song?
All the nights aches the heart
To see its verses in the dust
And the rhythm is the echo only.
I am now ******; it was to be.
Age is snow; it has to melt, it does.
My boughs are drooping, oh
With the ashes of every day.
Unable they are to withstand
The tumult of the time.