The shrieking, red teapot
With the frail, rusty handle
Burns over the same red flame
That reminds me of the autumn days
That we spent together.
The trees were bleeding
Their red and orange blood
Fell onto our woolen scarves
We were peasants to the wind
Hair flying and falling in rhythm
Laughs and chants could be heard
By the birds flying high above
The line of colorful trees.
But here right now
In this old yellow house
At the end of the street
The kettle still shrieks
Above the same blazing fire
Even though you're no longer here.
