Moss-walls, garden-harvest, golden-sun turns afternoon-orange thru the patio-vines hangin'
And in the coolness of air, parlor-games played in the old Victorian.
And the Autumn Victorian walks thru the leaves on the street.
The wind sends the leaves into dancing.
Along this Voctorian street,
Swirl-winds serene, it's Autumn breathing.
Bolt-white shards and ghosts of lightening,
never a dull moment 'cause it never ends.
Love was fine when she was alive,
but love has now turned into graveyard dreams.
La boda negra, the black wedding.
