I think I hear Spring tiptoing near so as to not alarm Winter's slumber.
Forgotten are Autumn, like the memory of a deceitful lover, but its chill still remain in some bones.
Put your hands around my face and make me remember how "it" was...

The wright yellowing of tree leafs rustling,
marking the vanishing youth of summer
with the whisper of winter's dragging feet,
trying to hurry away this newcomer.

Logs in the fire throwing small burning stars,
friends that surround and don't leave you alone,
companion embers of the first dying fire
with a shy light that remains me of "home"

Autumn, the King Winter's prince,
feeling the departing warm of summer
cries with rain, for a youth no longer there,
seeing in the mirror the image of a dead lover.