AUTUMN WISDOM

By Yasen Vedrin

(A Potion of Sighs)

My final autumn strikes me with its breeze

And shakes the yellow leaves into the air.

With secret leaven, kneaded with much ease

Inside my heart, to follow truth I dare.

It always wakes exactly at the stage

When loops and cycles near their final end,

And when the artist needs, at such an age,

To feel rich in the heights, as realms ascend.

Attempting at the sunset to stay warm,

Old men step forth into the gloomy phase.

They tap their canes in silence through the storm,

Forgetting their most mournful groan and days.

The leaves that lost the fight with falling down,

Have stripped away their summer shades of green,

And sooner, later, every leaf must drown

In withered foliage of this transient scene.

What could sustain their warmth if they must die?

Does their green yearning still remain behind?

Do precious, weary souls rise up and fly,

To break the chains that old age cast and bind?

No! That is not what’s written for us all!

For even in the autumn, spring can thrive!

But pine-needles they must be through the fall,

Not heavy oak leaves struggling to survive…

My final autumn strikes with heavy hand.

I shrink. A fading leaf I will not be!

A stubborn needle, small upon the land,

Ready to live two centuries, wild and free…

To still remain so radiant, fresh, and green,

And to endow everyone with breath —

This is my shared, wise truth, profound, serene,

For travelers to the Life that knows no death.