Featured: fall colors
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Autumn Contest - CLOSED
The White Lady of the North
She among the grass did briefly dwell,
The White Lady, Forerunner of the North Wind,
But she is the end of Autumn's gold.
Her touch is ice. Her kiss is cold.
I will greet her with fire in my hands,
And whisky in my mouth.
The world of man had passed; in his ignorance he'd died,
Despite his expectations, though, nature would not subside
An arrogant harvester, gave himself absolute worth
Oh, but if only he could have heard dear Nature's mirth
Man's creations crumbled, his poison dissipated,
Bodies beset by scavengers, pecked at, eviscerated,
And nature's gentle cycles kept on spinning even still,
The trees had leaves of amber once the air began to chill
For all of mankind's worry,
Himself alone did he kill
Still dark water flows by, dotted by autumn leaves. The orange has faded, now, wilted, turned brown as the season has passed. Trees stretch their dark, naked arms towards the sky, praying for sunlight, for warmth, for life. But their prayers will go unheeded for months to come as snow and frost cover all in a thick, cold, soft blanket. The world stands at Winter's door.
Silent steps descend the stairs, the sound hidden by the mournful singing of the small river. Naked feet, red with cold, step on grey stone painted with frost. Dead, brown grass crunches and breaks as the person, dressed in robes of grey, kneels before the wailing statue by the river.
Mourning grey. That is what the color is called, the one the person's robes are. They cover everything but hands, face and feet, rag-like and torn. They cannot hide the shaking shoulders as the mourner prays to the statue, the grey stone frozen in grief, both hands covering the face.
Naked feet, red with cold, step silently onto the stone.