Fall

Falling fire lands in piles of embers on the green grass, and defeated match sticks hold on to the last remnants of life. All true things shrivel up in protection. The old and worn out float carelessly to the ground almost as warnings to the little ones of what happens to spent life. A thick and grainy coat guards tender secrets, and as rough as it is, so it is needed against a horribly harsh and cold location. All things are silent now as the clock has wound down, so the breeze bellows the eternal bells; additionally, one last bend and the equal of fifty years gets carried away farther than we could imagine.