A gust, a rush stirs the skyward arms whose leaves like sails fill
These gentle towers have seen many moons, the ebb and wane of glory
As they draw their life's blood deep within, colors paint a vibrant story
Banners of death and retreat, who could have known, would speak so bright and bold
As the season chills, why do the colors warm in defense from the creeping cold?
The stir of breath dies silent, carrying away the fluttering array
The trees of watchmen's hill stand bare, the quiet tale of an autumn day