We are Autumn’s children,
Carrying fallen branches on our shoulders.
Wherever we walk,
Leaves fall, inanimate, to the ground.
We are unfinished bombs,
Projectiles that do not kill,
They assist the killer.
We walk around, seeing
Splinters reborn men,
Feeding themselves on madness,
Denying their wasteful past.
Our eyes spread the wind,
A suspicious breeze blowing.
We do not murder. No… No…
We assist the murderer.
We are Autumn’s children,
Announcing the arrival of rain,
The sharp edge of ice,
But we do not murder. No… No…
That’s not up to us.
Winter takes care of it.
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