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 William Bulter Yeats; Ireland)
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.