They become martyrs for their kind, a whispered topic of talk carried in the breeze amongst trees in forests everywhere. To these, the few, the last fallen, I pay tribute. Frozen in time, preserved ’til thaw, the Legends of the Fall.
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Legends of the Fall
They become martyrs for their kind, a whispered topic of talk carried in the breeze amongst trees in forests everywhere. To these, the few, the last fallen, I pay tribute. Frozen in time, preserved ’til thaw, the Legends of the Fall.
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We all know them.
We have heard of them.
We have witnessed them in action
year after year.
The brave.
The fearless.
The heroes of autumn.
Those leaves that,
after a productive summer,
refuse to fall.
Their greens turn into brilliant hues
of yellow, orange, and red.
Most of their compatriots
have long since let go,
falling to the ground,
bound to be swept up,
raked up,
driven over,
trampled on,
snowed on,
mulched.
But not these few.
No, these heroes refuse to let go,
refuse to be broken.
They hold on as long as they can,
until, one day, the inevitable happens.
Their destiny realized, they too fall to the ground.
But they become martyrs for their kind,
a whispered topic of talk carried in the breeze
amongst trees in forests everywhere.
To these, the few, the last fallen, I pay tribute.
Frozen in time, preserved ’til thaw,
The legends of the fall.
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