The leaves said that they wanted to resemble flowers just before they died. That's why, in Autumn they turn marigold yellow to mimic the sunflowers before they fall and die.

Now there's a golden ocean lying outside my window,

still and unmoved even though the wind blows.

'No', the leaves whisper, 'you must let us shine like gold here, we will not run into Death's arms for a while'.

So the leaves stick to the ground much like glue and only rakes remove them, yes they do.

They make sure to leave their legacies behind,

and catch everyone's eyes before they die, with their fiery colours of red, amber and gold.

They make sure their stories do not go untold.

The leaves leave their legacies.

Maybe we should too before we go.

So those who walk past our graves know

our greatness and who we were.

So they would cherish what we symbolise and represent and the fields we trod through with great pride.

So we will in turn encourage ourselves to be like the yellow autumn leaves.

But we couldn't quite turn our heads gold, so we went for a white that mimics silver.

Our hair turns the colour of snow before we depart, before we go.

And it glows on his dark head like an eclipsed moon,

shining before it dies with the night.

Then the break of day comes, and everyone has slept including those who have passed on.

Now a new era begins, and the stacks of parchment that record their legends grows.

Almost as tall as cypress trees the legends grow beside the seven seas.

And the living venture across the land to learn of many tales and to carve home their own paths.

Yellow, gold, amber, red and white. What colour will you be when you leave behind your legacy?

∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

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