Red Leaf

, , , , , , , , , , He is called Red Leaf…. birth child of autumn, and son of the trees His euphonious legend is heard in the breeze He is young, he is strong, he has proven his courage Standing proud against the darkness, and the sins of the reaper His spirit was not broken, by the weight of the storm His steadfastness will not melt like the springtime snow He has honor, respect, and a gallantry within His songs are his journey, he plays to soothe the wind There is prowess, and valor in each haunting lullaby He was taught by his elders, sad songs that touch the sky His flute holds the stories, like the sound of lonely larks Of loss, and death, of drifting smoke, and silent ashes Of when the mountains cried in anguish, and the sky looked on in pain But yesterday creates today, and holds a promise for tomorrow New songs are played, today telling of laughter of the birds And whispers of a bluer sky, how gentle rain will cleanse the smoke How buffalo will graze again, where the tall grasses will wave again Red Leaf warms the tender embers, his memories linger on He plays the songs that drift away, Trees above where branches sway The rock, the leaf, the ruddy dust that coats the valley floor Someday must return, and be restored, just as it was before , , , , , , , , , , , ,