Summer, the season of love, is gone.
Time goes marching on and on.
A priceless summer I let slip away.
An obliterate fuzz is each summer day.
Not one thing do I remember vividly.
What on earth is wrong with me?
Why are my memories so unclear?
Who will listen now that September is here?
September came and love is dead.
(My summer of love was all in my head.)
Love only flourishes on summer days.
It only blooms in summery ways.
Fall kills it, like fall kills the leaves.
But oh! The blood of the leaves, it seems
Such a beautiful color, a red-gold rain.
There must be some kind of beauty in pain.
Why not for me? Why is my sorrow
Not the lovely gold-red of September’s tomorrow,
But instead an unpleasantly unromantic brown,
Like desert spreading for miles outside of town?
September has come, and love is now gone.
Time goes marching on and on.
Why must love die on August’s 31st day?
Is there, somewhere, some other way?
Why are my memories so unclear?
Why did I not keep them vivid and near?
Who will listen now that September is here?