Though leaves are many, the root is one. Through all the lying days of my youth. I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun. Now I may wither into the truth.
("The coming of wisdom with time", by W. B. Yeats)
Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. O troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words.