The waterfall sings in silver threads,
a hymn of time where silence treads.
It tumbles soft through autumn’s flame,
each drop a note, no two the same.
Around its voice, the forest glows,
with crimson fire the maple knows.
Gold and amber drift through air,
a fleeting crown the branches wear.
So let the waters carve their song,
through fleeting days where we belong.
For every leaf that dares to fall,
becomes a part of nature’s call.
