This is the last season
Winds blow without the lilt
of summer song.
The distance ends at no horizon-
Why sing of hills, rivers, skies and trees
In themselves they remain
Without theme, color and meaning-
Winds fume and whine,
Storm through forests
Bending and lashing them to frenzy
The dark sun slips into torpor.
will pass like all years
days will become nights
seasons will bend and disappear
The bells in the temple ring out
The wafting of flames from lamps