The last leaf

The last leaf withers,
cold is the mountain breeze,
i rest under the maple tree,
anticipating its fall.

each breath the wind blows,
each touch the wind allows,
the last leaf holds on,
to a distant and blurry dream.

i feel the summer heat,
and Italy's fresh smell,
if only we hadn't been,
hundred worlds apart.

they call me the last leaf,
because i'm a creature,
of non-existence knowledge,
and what i do matters not.