Classic Poem

As a host of blood-flecked clouds
skim the golden sky
and melt into the vermilioned vastness
there comes borne on a wind
from the infinite womb of chaos
the dank wafture of decay.

Over the eternal waters of the sea
that weep and find no solace for their cares
lethargic vultures flock and swirl
and fill the echoes with their gloomy songs.

Hot winds from tropic zones
betray
the transient things of Earth.
The last yellow leaves fall
on the iridescent sward.
The wind dies
and the Summer voices are forever still.