I never liked to write about autumn
an empty sound, nothing but a spell,
when everyday you feel like at the bottom
of hollow well.
Gray, reckless people swarming in a crowd,
like frozen faces in the stone cement,
no laugh, no cry, no feeling is allowed
but for lament.
And never will it bring a pleasant thought,
all you can do is watch and wait,
until your summer mood is caught
on autumn bait.
And when, my friend, you are to look around
and search somebody just for common whining,
don’t be afraid of singing birds and shining:
your somber dome has fallen on the ground,
your soul has entered thorny path of fining.