The leaf, green, from the tree, in autumn, fell.
The people, where it lay, watched.
The wind, unseen, across my face, the ground and sky, blurred.
I, here for time and places, am.
We, about truth, with greater care, would say,
I, without prose, simple and flat, have written.
You, with cause, without truth, would miss,
Treasure, seldom valued, ever sought for, so hidden.