Autumn is a sweet death, it does not possess the love and beauty of spring, nor the life and tranquility of summer, nor does it possess the graceful slumber of winter, but a sweet retiring release. It is not like one who longs for death, like one who has gone through years of illness or morning, but more like a waltz that is gingerly coming to a close.
Autumn is like a loving migrant mother singing the last lullaby to her desolate child, she knows it is the child’s last song and soon hers will follow. She contains virtuosity, and strength, while failing her spawn in all of the material needs, she can swallow back her immense despair, and muster all that remains of her soul, everything that is left, and draw together one last sonnet, to ease the only thing that matters to her , to the other side.
It is not right, but when nothing is right in this world, it suddenly becomes condonable, and in a since it suddenly becomes wonderful. To find beauty in all of this ugliness, is truly the spiritual constitution of a Saint. To find the pleasant aroma in the delicate decay of autumn, is to truly realize, we all succumb to a sweet death.
