Dried leaves knocking down the air
chestnuts striking pavements of our walk
a mourning breathe of too old branches
and music of their death
the shivering of lake
this reddish light of fall
all these surrounding sounds
the past recall.
I wish I could’ve written down that song
that healed all thousand moments
of craving for your soul.
My hand sings still
but still alone
From Parentheses – work in progress