Fallen, fallen are the children of the autumn
Deprived of all their dignity, trampled underfoot
Barren, barren are the mothers of the forest
Acquainted with bereavement, overwhelming loss

Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the orphans and the widows
Have no voice

Empty, empty are the once luxuriant branches
No more they bear their bounty, forsaken as the dark
Grinded, grinded are the grapes of Spring’s begetting
But off’ring no redemption, wine to glad man’s heart

Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the empty vine and fruit
Have naught to sing

Silent, silent are the oft’ loquacious poets
That sang in green and crimson, chanting golden tunes
Weary, weary are the words of Summer’s music
Devoid of poignant meaning, lacking any ring

Alas! Alas! O who will mourn?
For the writer and his pen
Have lost their song

When children die and mothers wail
When fruit has dropped and vines have failed
When words don’t come and poets cease
When autumn trees lose all their leaves…

Take heart, my soul, forsake not hope.
For the Tree of Niggle’s Leaf
Will bloom again