It’s a sharp, cold day in October,

up here in these far-rolling hills,

decked out in fiery colours,

like the coat that Joseph received,

but I’m warmed by longing reflections,

of hot summer days and a girl

who ran to the silvery river,

that flows through the village below,

where for hours we talked,

and for hours we sat,

and for hours our eyes we entwined.

Ah, to remember her beauty,

so gentle, so delicate, so aged,

her mystery now is transmuted,

a rainbow turned into gold,

so all that’s left is the mourning

for the future we lost long ago,

as with wine and tears we remember,

though old, though sad, and though few,

our quest for the love and the longing,

that gives life to the passage of time.