Whispers of Autumn

The golden lights are streaming,
Through branches bent with age,
A fleeting dream is gleaming,
Upon the twilight stage.
The leaves descend in whispers,
Like secrets never told,
Their fragile voices linger,
In hues of red and gold.
The crisp, cool air is sighing,
It brushes pale, soft skin,
A ghost of summer dying,
As shadows settle in.
The scent of spice is weaving,
Through hearths where embers glow,
A promise half-believing,
Of warmth the heart once knew.
The grass lies long and golden,
Its blades like threads of flame,
Each stalk a tale unspoken,
Each root a buried name.
The candles flicker slowly,
Their flames a mournful song,
They bow their heads so lowly,
To nights that stretch too long.
The dusk recalls the faces,
That time has swept away,
Their laughter haunts the spaces,
Where silence now must stay.
So Autumn weaves her sorrows,
Through joy and fleeting peace,
A hymn of lost tomorrows,
Carried by the wild geese.
Their cries across the distance,
Are echoes, sharp and deep,
A call of love’s persistence,
That even death can’t keep.
And in the fading embers,
Of skies that bleed to gray,
The soul ever remembers,
What autumn takes away.