In the last few days
I've tried to write so many poems
with the boudoir door left closed,
but how many poems
can you write
about incessant rain,
of fallen leaves, withered,
soaked, laying everywhere,
the summer cast down
and trod on, brown leaves
floating like drowned dreams
on the dark waters of the fall...
How many poems
one can write
of the night coming early,
without stars,
of black trees disappearing
into the dark blue
after grey hours in gloom?
Of the winter that looms
over each pallid day?
True, I've written many before,
I will make of the raw unborn
something still, yet
one needs a bit of blood
surging in the veins,
not stagnant rainwater,
the chill lake waters
where only the rare fish swims now
and from whose shores
the migrant birds have flown
towards the Sun and the stars.
08.10.2025
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