He was born in late summer
A bad-fated, young, green leaf
and when, just one week old, autumn began
His mother, the tree, discarded him
and he opened his eyes, while closing,
-Is sunrise at dusk, possible!?
But the little soul, active, waited-
as the first winter breeze touched him
He danced around,
doubtful, “Why did the other leaves keep quiet?”
He danced and fluttered, but suddenly stopped;
She, the wind, apparently old now,
and this pure soul now kept quiet
Till it passed on to the next leaf in spring.