Autumn

And the feathers float down on their way to the river, forgotten and forlorn. A light touch of breeze caresses them as they fall silently in their melancholy descend.

Rivers flow like the silent stream that carries away the memories of yesterday, bringing with them the fallen leaves like the fallen hopes that she embraces in her bosom.

Flowers whither as they prepare for the coming of winter, a luxury she does not have the chance to experience. For winter does not exist in this land, but the flowers still whither...