I’m upset at her hasty departure, nervous of autumn,
when November drives away her gentle warmth,
scaring tumultuous trees;
the insolent wind passing through trees,
wailing like a dog beaten and banished,
shaking their last ornaments,
covering paths with dead leaves,
shattering spiral birds’ nests
stopping then confused, crazy,
at the walls and windows.
Asked, the wind of autumn’s end
tells the same spiteful story,
otherwise sings repetitive, obsessive.
Sometimes, her phrases are so long
that I plug my ears so not to hear…
I’m afraid of the grey loneliness of cool nights
when the moon hides,
stars disappear, eclipsed by clouds,
raindrops falling, lightning, small, dull,
filling sidewalks and streets in mud,
when steps lead me toward home where
no soul is waiting…
Gripped by fear
I close the door behind me, creak,
I hide in the rooms,
Wrapped in her silence and darkness
of night,
I fall into a deep slip without of dreams…
No! I don’t like the oddness of autumn –
its fierce sky of days,
the wind, drizzle, bare trees, drowsiness,
in which are sleeping violins, pianos and coffins.