A brief mention of bears, hrmm, I wonder?
When the dead pass away
why is it so beautiful?
The brown crispy leaves,
the fire blanket of autumn
that surrounds one,
rushes about the sky
all golden.
Bears tiptoe underground
where they sleep,
their dreams connecting
dead with living.
Soon all will slumber.
Death in one final sweep
will turn colours,
all magnum yellow, golden sun.
The passed away
will finally flutter
to their resting ground.
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