All around, there is a silence and a fading of color

All around, there is a silence and a fading of color:

how gently the wind brushes the woods,

cajoling it to give up its withered leaves;

I love this placid dying.

From here the silent journey begins.

The time of love is past,

the birds have finished singing

and the dry leaves are falling softly.

The birds have moved south;

from the ruin of leaves

nest lie revealed, their protection no longer needed;

the leaves are ever falling, the weary leaves.

In the soft murmur of this wood

I fancy I hear a message wafting to me,

that everything dying and fading

is merely a secret and delightful trick.