The Autumn leaves are falling,
Brown snowflakes from the sky,
The Autumn leaves are falling, so are you and so am I;
The rising wind is calling,
And gently fans the flame
Which burns inside, and flares up every time I speak her name.
The Winter wind is chilling,
And cuts me like a blade,
Would that I could December gales for Summer zephyrs trade;
The emptiness is killing,
And hurts more than the cold,
And though the former I can flee, the last canít be controlled.
The snow is white and glistíning,
But snow does not reflect
The colour of my skin which paler grows from self-neglect;
My mind, alert and listíning,
Imagines that the breeze
Which cruelly tans my hide, whispers her name between the trees.
Now the wind blows a tempest,
And howling through the wire,
I hear it clearly as it mocks my broken heartís desire;
Cruel sorcery, the temptress!
What does this torture gain?
Yet laughter seems to fill the air with every twinge of pain
I feel, and still the wind cries out her name.
Now Iím back in the building,
The lights are coming on,
Darkness is all around, the snow is melting, almost gone.
No more is the wind chilling,
Yet I hear all the same
The banshee howling through the wire, and still I feel the pain
As it screams her name:
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