A feast of rain

Oh, this autumn—a weeping maiden fair,
Her tears hold echoes of a fading light.
Though sadness lingers in the heavy air,
My soul breathes easy in the coming night.

The dusk descends; the sun is but a ghost,
No blizzards yet, but winter’s cold design
Is etched in smoke that rises from the coast,
In rings of gray that twist and intertwine.

Oh, this autumn—a wild and vivid bloom,
Where riot colors clash with hollow skies,
Where howling winds weave shadows on the loom,
And every gust is like a lover’s sighs.

A feast of rain, monotonous and deep,
Like cries of love abandoned in the ash,
Like secrets that the lonely spirits keep,
Before the final, cold and sudden crash.

Oh, this autumn—a shepherdess in rags,
Splashed with the mud and gold of fallen leaves,
Tossed by the wind that tears at tattered flags,
And hides the sorrow that the forest weaves.

Veiled in the mist, washed by the silver rain,
No scent of summer—only bitter musk,
Of dreams forgotten, of a sweet, dull pain,
That drifts away into the velvet dusk.