Like the green leaves on a winter-near tree,
We are – meant to be free.
Although, what we go through cannot be seen,
The tree frees us, despite being keen.
Just give me a new season, a month, another day,
These are our wishes: just a little May.
Maybe, there’s another May, named not the same,
Another tree with yearly reclaim.
But, even the pins seeming living and ever-green
Have their winter, their Augustine.
Living no lie, the tree frees us when it leaves us drawn,
Unwanted to see yellowish and brown.
Even the moments freeze when the winter is here,
With our look, we start to disappear.
Then, we’ll be freed from that beautiful tree’s lean,
By a falling leaf’s last scene nobody’s seen.
Then, what will say: that was us, that was our tree?
What will immortalize me?
The fallen leaves around me, on and under the ground?
Are my words freed too, or will be refound?