The Change of Time
The end of summer dies with the death of leaves,
Falling down to the base of the trees.
What a pity is life be to smothered out by the change of time,
To be thrown away like a contract unsigned.
And to what attempt can one stop this event,
To what extent is death to the living already sent.
Waiting for time to show them their grave,
Descending to death without seconds to save.
The sun awakes and sleeps each day the same,
Unchanging, unaltered, unpleased by any pain.
There is no thought given to the passing of a leaf,
There is no funeral, honor or grief.
Their only memory is found in a mound of the dead ,
A leaf pile creating a comfortable bed.
To a happy child who does not know,
That the change of time is also his show.