With the last light of Autumn,
When the withering leaves the rhythm,
He who wrote so seldom,
Drowned now in his own kingdom.

With the first snow of Winter,
When the howling wolves gather,
She who once rode the panther,
Flew away before the last lead wither.

With the scorching heat of Summer,
When all of forest cries of water,
He who waited with all hope in quiver,
Remembered the last December.

With the rains of sweet Monsoon,
When they both once danced in lagoon,
She who came to replaced his favourite cartoon,
Now miles apart celebrated with another new moon.