As the heedless wind swirled the withered leaves,
And the heavens wept upon the grass,
Nobody came to my funeral.
Was it the sorrows I laid upon their weary shoulders?
Was it the laughter I kept to myself?
Nobody came to my funeral.
Had summer breathed upon this earth,
Would one have come beneath its golden light?
Nobody came to my funeral.
Yet November reigns,
And no soul came to mourn me.
