Way up,
On a high branch,
Hangs the last leaf,
Golden,
Fragile,
Clinging onto a dried branch,
Spring’s last hope,
As autumn is strewn on the ground,
A prediction to an end,
Of flowery ornaments ,
Of blossoms,
Of beauty,
Swaying on a melancholy cold tune,
Wind sealing its fate,
Falling upon dead grass,
To be blown away,
Abandoning its beloved tree,
Withdrawing from all rights to nature,
To wither away,
To vanish.