I tried my best, like autumn’s auburn leaves
To cling to spring or summer if I could
But found that winter offered no reprieve
And learned that clinging doesn’t do much good
The roots, the trunk, the branch gave up at last
And doing so they left me little choice
Their need for me was somewhere in the past
And mine for them, a dry unheeded voice
The west wind blew and shook me from my place
The south wind felt just like my final sighs
The east wind was a slap across my face
The north wind froze the teardrops in my eyes
Old winter came without a joyful sound
And I was dead before I hit the ground

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