Near the bench I sit
Where an old oak grows.
Midway of the sky from the Earth,
And its oldness shows.
Stems and dull-warm color,
Small winds, falling air.
Tired and bare,
Falling pieces, sliding sweetly everywhere.

Old things talking peacefully,
I see it everyday.
Small old residents,
One leaf goes away.
On my bench; see them fly
I often stare.
They’re getting ready to travel,
Watching them clear.

Only a bunch left on the oak,
They stay for me to see
For my thoughts open when I look at them.
Sometimes one, I’d like to be
Flying calmly from high to low
Each getting loose softly.
Starting to wrinkle of age
It looks rather lovely

My old friends
Whether the oak dies of winter.
There is one thing I’m most certain of,
While most people may ignore
Leaves heavy with snow
This only happens for one season
Then new leaves will begin to grow.


Although they die of age
They fly away with a past
To tell the story of the life.
From the elder oak that will last
So when one generation dies
And flutters down into a pit,
Another starts to grow
Near the bench I sit.