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

this fall.

From Parentheses – work in progress