It is autumn. I am alone. Think about you. The leaves fall ... The melody of a sorrow that I ignore wanders. The wind, which shakes withered anguish, passes like a memory through the sound forest.
It is autumn. It seems that a dream renounces, that a disenchantment scatters the ephemeral finery ... A golden pomp that renounces death, with the withered landscape forms a rain of wings.
I am alone. It feels like autumn is a journey ... There is a soul that cries because someone says goodbye. This decline of plants that reddens the landscape, with my discouraged serenity coincides.
I think of you, hearing a song lost in the distance. They sing about dead things, the music of flight. As my fallen love keeps its hope, the withered forest wants to rise to heaven.
The leafs are falling. The tragic jungle collapses. Spread a willow like a generous fountain. The most diverse leaves have the same grave, and intermingled they roll in the same torrent.
You are like a breeze through my sound garden. My life is a branch that, in your path, you strip; and that the winds will have a destination that I do not know. It is autumn. I am alone. Think about you. The leafs are falling...