In the leaf-shedding season
In the leaf-shedding season
it is
as if what was low becomes higher
and what was sound
becomes silence
the migrant birds that have arrived belatedly
are in for an uncertain winter.
It sometimes happens that children
born in the spring
have already shrunk into old people.
They hold out their hands
as if they had been condemned
to become joyless beggars.
Yes
even the sails
now approaching harbours
resemble overripe fruit.
Among the remains of
the gutted house
after this summer’s last thunderstorm
the old man living there holds up
a refound nail
in front of his face.
And it is as if leaves and beggars
and the children and the very old
were engaged in some other conversation.
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