The golden sun set over the crest of the big foggy mountain
In it's wake, a thousand shades of green slowly turned grey
The leaves of oak unfurled wave goodbye to the midsummer day
Still damp from the noontime rain, dripping like a fountain.
The leaves of the oaks interlock, like hands that pray
Creating a canopy against the starry Summer night
As if to shield my eyes from some terrible freight
But what could be so freightful of a sight?
The leaves hide nothing but the stars and the moon
They wish to conceal them that I may not grieve
For they remind us mortals that our time is brief
Summer is for living, not contemplating doom.
Yet the leaves know not of my salvation
They've had only the Spring for contemplation
Never knowing the leaves that have come before
Unknowing of their fate when the autumn winds roar.
The big foggy mountain has seen this all before
He knows eternity better than men and leaves
Well aquainted with the moon and stars he grieves
Leaves and mortals pass, yet they never ever see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem