The Tale of All Things

As the rains falls,

The leaves turn copper crisp,

And fall from the trees,

And I begun to wonder,

Must all things die?

For I will never be ready,

To fall peacefully from the tree,

And lie withered on the ground.

When winter comes,

A cold frosty white grave,

Takes the place of the leaves,

Upon the branches and the ground,

And autumn is soon forgotten,

Must I be forgotten?

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