Autumn ill and adored
You die when the hurricane blows in the roseries When it has snowed In the orchard trees Poor autumn Dead in whiteness and riches Of snow and ripe fruits Deep in the sky The sparrow hawks cry Over the sprites with green hair the dwarfs Who’ve never been loved In the far tree-lines the stags are groaning And how I love O season how I love your rumbling The falling fruits that no one gathers The wind the forest that are tumbling All their tears in autumn leaf by leaf The leaves You press A crowd That flows The life That goes. by Guillaume Apollinaire
0 Comments
|
Archives
February 2020
Categories |