Fall is coming.

Streets of fall are rusty

as medals of the state,

where I was born.

My first word was Mom.

My first face was green,

if you know what I mean.

My first name was Love.

My mother said, «You can

and you must!»

My father said, «You are the last of us.»

I answered them,

«Fall turned girls into boys,

women into men,

apples into jam.»