Season of mists and mellow,
Faded by the fallen leaves,
The maple tree smiles bright.
Brighter than the flames of fire,
Awaiting the last golden leaf to fade off
Just like the old man in the wood,
With his crooked stick
Which cannot hold more,
Hue that won't last anymore,
Nothing gold can stay,
As the season sings its last song,
Sooner the white carpets will flow in
Covering the dead and alive.
-