When leaves burning red and orange and yellow
shine gold against fading light
As leaves mark again the unchanging rhythms of life-
It is now that we remember- we men with our creations-
our inventions, noisy and dulling, are not the princes here.
It is the hills, privy to the secrets only ages can tell, that remain the true conquerors-
witnesses to the wisping battles of men and beast, played out as seconds in the long sweep of the seasons.
In the hands of these silent, unshakeable sages, we remember the frailty and foolishness that marks our race-
thinking ourselves gods, these hills kindly laugh as we stare- for just a moment- at the fate that we ourselves have sown-
the cruel mortality that leaves us born and dead in the blink of their ancient eyes.
And yet, isn't it the eternity in our hearts that makes this colorful perfection burn sad and beautiful?
Again, it is these hills who know better- for they remember- and hope- that they may one day burn brighter than they have yet known- alive once more as subjects to only the king who called them to be.
And if we are quiet enough- we remember- and we hope- for the day that we know these hills as equals, lighting up with a fiery red that no eye has seen as we at long last behold- and walk these hills with our king.
