Autumn Is Fallen Leaves

Autumn is fallen leaves, the shoots push out from a gap of rocks that still covered with yester-year’s snow, by a brook runs carrying melting ice; it grows to a tree struggling though long and wearisome summer days beaten by fierce heat all the day and the night. And in that way, when the summer’s long days move to west shoved by the west wind and dye a corner of the sky to red, the leaves also become red and move to the west following the waning sun. And when the tree becomes not able holding the weight of the west wind that comes hurriedly pushing the weakening sun rays aside and violently shakes the limbs the leaves fall to the ground and men, because the leaves fall, I suppose, call it autumn. The leaves breaking to pieces under feet, rolling on the ground pushed by the wind and drifting along on the water are dead leaves and humming with the decaying season watching those autumn leaves is a touching requiem.