The trees though little time they have till fall Have never been so timeless as today And, with an immaculate green, recall The eternity from which we fell away. A kind of calm that follows where we run Redeems our footprints. Where the wind has crossed The treetops haloed in the setting sun, They rustle in the tongues of Pentacost. Theirs is a green of foliage and must go Shedding itself in bits of red till these Shake unclad in a chill and sanguine glow. Thus Adam who had bitten into God, Awoke and felt a new cold in the breeze, Sentenced into his naked flesh and blood