From the garden, hear the clining of the chimes
The last tomatoes, hanging shriveled on the vine
this autumn breeze is just a promise of freeze, that's coming soon.
the seasons fleeting, the days are blurring into years,
the lines retreating, as every moment disappeared
and every word has been erased
the stories end to leave another to begin to start anew
and in a thousands years, when all our bones have dissapeared