Slowly and slowly, Autumn is creeping in.
The old wounds are to open.
The missing ones to find.
The dead ones to remind.

The yellow leaves are pale
Like the dead bodies scattered here and there.
The iron boots trample our dead
Like the common people trample the yellow leaves that are shed.

The bruised hearts are to drip blood.
The dry canals are to flood.
Graveyards are to look desolate.
Youth have to die soon or late.

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There is no chance of Spring.
Autumn is acting like a spring.
Our graves are getting cold again.
Birds have to refrain.

Long Winter nights mean more longing.
Shorter days mean yearning for belonging.
Let us patiently wait for another Autumn.
Let us prepare ourselves to die in this Autumn.

Editor's Note

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