Autumn blows in, sharp and cold,
and bitter is the remembered taste
of Autumns past, shrouded in mold.
I hide in my bed, I cannot face
a world turned grey by wind and rain-
sweet Summer's youth is laid to waste.
Wat'ry-eyed November, the days days trickle away,
I lie abed, smelling Winter's dank breath
and hear his knife-like fingers rattling my windowpane.
A torturous game the seasons play, on me and on the Earth,
I hear them now, outside my door, chuckling in their mirth.