Another year dead, and the harvest moon;
Leaves burning is the peasant's legacy
Knelling, as the cheek of Summer is kiss'd--
Shivering of the elm, she is entomb'd
The hay wain creaks through the countryside
As poet Autumn's fires scorch all this world
They are entranced by the turning mill wheel,
Clear and cutting with Proserpine's kiss
Bless the sun, decked in gorgeous array--
Frost, and the dignity of flameless light,
The hermit's cottage, fashioned rough of stone--
Smoke rolling slow behind the orchard's bloom
Like a cairn, the stones are aligned in silence;
Arrayed by a bloodless hand, out through veils
Time is easily torn while pitchforks twist,
Twist as easily through her golden hair
Seasons that kill years
Death that mangles hearts
Loves that lose their shine
Tombs that are forgot
Darkness awaits behind the suffering day
Men that waste lives in search of Heaven
Stones are sobbing in a vernal field
Thoughts of spring and cascades before you die