The trackless maze, infinite passes
Winding between brown and russet
Reds like youthful anger

It’s during these times –
Winter, no longer Summer’s distant past –
That sparks become revolutions

These dry and falling dreams
Transform into bright and burning flames,
Woe be unto the hand that seeks to stamp or control

For fire burns
And these burning leaves drift
On the wind

And in the end
These burning leaves
Shall blanket the Earth