The Fallen

The Fallen Autumn

 

Dance of the Autumn Leaves

Autumn Sunday was ordained

For the fallen

Gently lifting their separate songs

In dancing circles slain

Dying leaves drifting

From arms of branches long

Reigning their bane

Walk-on

Celebrating death.

Multi-coloured confetti

Mixed with brown roses

Moving molten golden

Faded green and silver jet

Their shriveled shapes

Mocking, yet

Entrances by their gloria.

Sounding percussions in every shade of red

The lightest cymbals in Autumn-orange 

Echoing fading greens now bled.

With the children’s laughter, and pumpkin friend

The odor of dead leaves

Fills my soul

I breathe deep the sweet

With this minstrel I sing, “I am alive”

Chilly wind endings extol.

Customary crunching sounds, 

Intoxicating, riveting.

With this intimate abstruse 

Their song did not leave me

On the shore

Autumn spices mingle with the Pine

In the distance veiled in

Vaporous mists

Enfolding evening

Indigo waves thrashing

Death visits once again.

The question came, “What do you want?”

Without as much as a whisper

Unawares as a warrior’s sword

I glimpsed a hand catch hold my soul

Cutting my heart wide open

Snatching all the asura and demons

That Dread flooding the Dawn shadowing the day

All that skeletal nexus reaping decay

Vamping the eternal 

Falling dead leaves on tombstones invite the celebratory.

Into the endless pit

It falls forever

Into the BOTTOMLESS 

I dance, and dance

Celebrating the death of the futile

The rest of Winter

Your end in chains.

 

Autumn Song

BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the heart feels a languid grief

Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

The Fallen Autumn

 

Dance of the Autumn Leaves

Autumn Sunday was ordained

For the fallen

Gently lifting their separate songs

In dancing circles slain

Dying leaves drifting

From arms of branches long

Reigning their bane

Walk-on

Celebrating death.

Multi-coloured confetti

Mixed with brown roses

Moving molten golden

Faded green and silver jet

Their shriveled shapes

Mocking, yet

Entrances by their gloria.

Sounding percussions in every shade of red

The lightest cymbals in Autumn-orange 

Echoing fading greens now bled.

With the children’s laughter, and pumpkin friend

The odor of dead leaves

Fills my soul

I breathe deep the sweet

With this minstrel I sing, “I am alive”

Chilly wind endings extol.

Customary crunching sounds, 

Intoxicating, riveting.

With this intimate abstruse 

Their song did not leave me

On the shore

Autumn spices mingle with the Pine

In the distance veiled in

Vaporous mists

Enfolding evening

Indigo waves thrashing

Death visits once again.

The question came, “What do you want?”

Without as much as a whisper

Unawares as a warrior’s sword

I glimpsed a hand catch hold my soul

Cutting my heart wide open

Snatching all the asura and demons

That Dread flooding the Dawn shadowing the day

All that skeletal nexus reaping decay

Vamping the eternal 

Falling dead leaves on tombstones invite the celebratory.

Into the endless pit

It falls forever

Into the BOTTOMLESS 

I dance, and dance

Celebrating the death of the futile

The rest of Winter

Your end in chains.

 

Autumn Song

BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the heart feels a languid grief

Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?