Poor leaves dry and hardened, which at the first blows of the wind fall on the graves of the dead, what are you saying? Are you saying perhaps something like this? We only enjoyed ourselves in the month of April under the lukewarm rays of the sun, which made us sprout. We covered the branches with beautiful green leaves and spent happy and quiet days. But now autumn is coming and we leaves are falling off the branches and are going back to the ground that fed us. We have to follow the will of the wind. And while the wind spins us around we say words to the sleeping, but they don’t respond.