As I stand here burning leaves
The aroma of autumn
Distinct and full of memories
Cold yet warming, like hidden sin
‘Tis death approaching
A season’s end
Grey skies and long nights
The beginning of decay
Green turns to gold
But it will not stay

Under a harvest moon
An omen looms
From fervent prayer
A discerning guide
A spirit of light
May all who hear beware

Servants of twilight
There is a coming dawn
There the vultures will gather
There death will new life spawn

As the earth grows cold
And all its hues fade
Memories of our future
Are revived once again

At the end of an age
Harvesting wheat
Burning the tares