• This fall season is fading fast,
    The leaves on trees will never last,
    My hope is carried by the evening sun,
    which shines beautifully as its time is run.

    Indeed the night is coming quickly,
    My sword is wielded rather sickly,
    as it sheds blood to protect blood,
    whispers of ghosts, my mind is flood.

    My spirit aches for a utopia,
    my tears cause myopia,
    and my blade is laid to rest again,
    I say goodbye to magic arcane.

    In the wake of the rising sun.