The dried land calls to me in a silent and precise

way

The blooming flowers and the sprinkled thorns

are jealous

And gray

Letting go of their springlike attributes they

follow the call

Standing there waiting, almost ridiculous

And gray



I did not ask to kill summer

I did not command the hiding of the snickering

sun

Yet the church bells ring dead

And the leaves surrender, almost ridiculous

And gray



Shall I court the moon, shall I persuade the

rain

Upon my return?

Autumn's a poets' season, but I'm having none

of it

I'd rather the Great One crack and split

Releasing monstrous thunder upon a crooked

grin

But, powerless, I'd succumb, almost ridiculous

And gray



Dead season, dead poetics, dead souls

Where's reason, where the risks, where's my

role?

Shall I conquer the land and stand victorious

Upon my return?

One will say, I'm almost ridiculous

And gray

And the leaves burn



Alas, it is all I can say and do

Writing about the sun, death and the lone

cuckoo

So good day, it is, and good night

Sleep well, sleep well, my dears, most of all

Good night, sleep well

If at all