Quiet autumn, weeping rain,
Yet warm days bring a soft delight.
The russet woods are torn in twain,
As dreams take wing in fading light.
Not for a girl, but wisdom’s grace,
I yearn, though age has made me slow;
Like some old hound in narrow space,
I grumble at the ebb and flow.
For age is cold, the years have fled,
Yet memory tastes of honeyed wine—
Of laughter shared, of words we said,
When all the world was yours and mine.
We loved with fire, we spent our breath,
We drank the nectar from the vine,
Defying time, defying death,
With lips that tasted so divine.
With tender heat and bold desire,
We worshipped at a sacred shrine,
And whispered secrets by the fire,
In mischief’s sweet and tangled line.
Oh, reckless youth, a whirlwind gale,
You vanished like a morning ghost;
But in this frame, so thin and pale,
You stay the girl I loved the most.
Quiet autumn
© Copyright: Святослав Соловьев, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126100705280
Свидетельство о публикации №126100705280
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