L'automne
est un deuxième printemps
où chaque
feuille est une fleur.
Albert
Camus
Wind erasing traces
But still in love
Flight
into violet, blue, dark grey
Vol de nuit
Leaving with the
wild geese
To
embrace a tree
And feel its heart beating
Slowly, eternally
Silent
moon
Wuthering heights
Kissing in the foggy heath
A
dead letter
Comes to life again
Resounding in memories
Words
grow longer
After summer solstice
Smoke from the chimneys
Stars
wait patiently
Behind clouds to part
Crickets aren’t,
chirping
Crystal
silence
Hidden moon
Then crickets
Raw
bricks and cow dung
To be burnt during winter
Yaks ruminating
Just
after the rain
Black forest as taciturn
As the crickets
.
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