If the leaf come off the tree, it’s not its fault.
Isn’t the wind fault for blowing and blowing tireless, deceitful bringing his whispered tune?
Isn’t the branch fault for shaking with every knock coming from below?
Isn’t the time fault for turning the seasons with his eternal swapping dance?
From the wood the leaf is shot, wavering in the wake of air, lulling in the trembling breeze, gathering with the family remains.
Suddenly a golden carpet on the streets,when you lay your step down magic is here and the children sing and celebrate, jumping their happiness around.