"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad."

September, drifting in with glow of moon,
you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.

Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves.
The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues.
You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.

In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse.
For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze.
The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues.

Though warmth may linger through your final days,
old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong!
For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze.

September, you’re a melancholy song.
Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk!
Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong.

October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque.
September, drifting in with glow of moon,
though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.