Nostalgia

NOSTALGIA

Rainbow leaves are scattered at my feet
Children of the dying Autumn.
At the bench, bellow the tree
her voice is warm and soothing
like a mother's kiss.

And she sang the song of the passing year,
of melancholy and nostalgia, of a door that is almost shut
but has a little hole of hope and chill
remembering those moments that are wasted, lost and gone.