"Stay, stay!
I hold your hand, your lifetime,
you keep your will, your last stand."

That is what leaves still do chant
in their starred withered land.

They whirl and stir, with the sharp
northern wind that creeps.
They tumble
and crumble
with the wind
that mumbles.
They will demonize
their newly drawn broken scars.

They will realize
that time and wind 
are cunning thieves.

And they dance, they dance,
to the autumn waltz.