The dead leaves

I would be lying if I said

I wasn't lying on the ground,

gasping for every breath,

clutching at my chest,

panting for dear undeath.

I am not unscathed.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

carouse in the wet grass.

A few drops fall on my face.

Whether by an ill fate or by grace,

we've had heavy rain again.

I remember, I remember someone,

whose heart I should have gained,

whose hand I have unwon.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

drowse on the neat path.

I have found a hair on my sleeve,

a blond hair only one could leave,

and there I was, unquieted, drenched,

sobbing for the one lost,

holding the hair in my fist clenched,

once more wrenched and tossed.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

rouse in a hellish din,

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

capriole, swish and spin.

I thought I could have diverted the blow

but now my head's bent, I begin to unknow.

I shall rest here awhile,

wait until this unshining pall

goes on to buffet another smile

with its leave-swirling squall.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves

contuse the soul, contuse the skin.

The dead leaves, the dead leaves,

those dead leaves bruise the man within.