We´re fools, are we?
Last trails; different ways and manners; fades; from sad May to miserable November, joy lays; in lonely tender haze, months stay before Summer comes just to go away; leaves, the ground face; turn out decayed; now hike, last found times, the same around again; reveals itself in the end, fast, plain, down, towards remains; only then could they really fit as vain last bit as this; still tries to exist, the whole trip past; that is, all trips last.
