The Dead Fall Poem by Natasa To

Mùa Thu Chết

Autumn arrived on a hush of rain,
each drop tapping the leaves like a small, cold bell,
then sliding down their veins
to darken the pavement with yesterday.

The wind moved through the trees
with the dry breath of a forgotten room.
It lifted the leaves in rust-colored spirals,
scraped them along the street,
and scattered them like letters no one would read.

Once, we walked together
beneath a sky bruised purple at the edges,
while the last light thinned
to a pale gold thread between the rooftops.
We believed love could linger
after the sun had gone.

Now evening folds itself early.
Rain beads on the window, blurring the lamps
into trembling halos.
The old songs fade beneath the weather,
and each leaf skittering past my door
sounds like a memory trying to leave.

Perhaps autumn did not die—
perhaps it changed its color,
turning warmth into longing,
footsteps into echoes,
and the scent of wet earth
into the ache of your absence.

So I stand beneath the rain,
feeling its cold fingers gather at my collar,
watching the final leaves descend
through the dimming blue,
and wonder whether, somewhere,
you still remember autumn too.