Enamored men vainly search
in a city that never sleeps.
Their hope has died,
they're bitter inside.
Ardor left with the close of autumn

So many questions
answered with lies--
the wind, it cuts like ice,
soaring through defenseless trees.
Ardor left with the close of autumn

Senescent dreams are
cold, discouraging,
quenching the flame of hope.
Like leaves, dreams die,
away they fly,
settling among the faded hue.
It's a testament, a sad lament:
"Ardor left with the close of autumn".

To bid adieu to the faded hue:
oh yes, 'tis quite sublime.
To be a man of the Artist's hand
would definitely be fine.

Flowers in the midst of death,
hope is all around.
Supine men wake,
first breaths they take:
ardor came with the close of autumn.