All the beautiful things are dying and I am sad. All the beautiful things I know rhyme with death and I am sad. The sun is only a sun because it is not yet a memory. Tomorrow, it will be a memory. When I reach the other side of the street, I will forget your name which is to say everything is forgettable, even love. All the beautiful things are like fields made of dry straw that only know how to burn. All the beautiful things are dying like birds that crashed into walls and broke their necks. All beautiful things are impermanent like loose teeth, Meanwhile, the night tightens its net on our throats, And under the sky, Right where the trembling trees are, All the beautiful leaves are falling, falling.