No softness here; summer has fled,
Autumn undressed and silently bled
All that the harvest could give and left,
A bare denuded stem bereft
Of comfort. Only hardness remains,
Greed has gathered its’ ill-gotten gains,
The thorn will defend this fragile root,
The thieves have stolen all their loot.
So leave this thorny branch alone,
It belongs to water turned to stone,
No spring can open this scene now,
Time’s run out of what it will allow,
And frozen this picture of pain,
Like an indelible bloodstain,
The only water that now flows
Are tears only innocence knows.