is it all the unsolved tears,
all the joy glued to moments,
is it the scent of dead mice
rotting in the kitchen
or the sweetly odour of leaves,
one on the other, autumn came,
is it the memory of dying?
maybe i need not to fly,
there is nothing much
but reflection caught in
a mirror.
here or there, what can it be?
maybe to go for a shovel
and dig another pit for
hope which is futile now,
this is not a season for spring
but for fools who feel the
winds come, they wait for
a kiss, their tears will be rain
and o, how they want to be green.
but the evening sun sinking
embraces all in gold and red,
and there are silent nights
and lonely travels ahead
