November
The field earth breathes mist
Into the weak light of afternoon.
Red leaves on the cemetery wall
Drip tears into the yellow clay,
Which envelops your peaceful walk
Along every pathway into the empty land.
For hours the rain’s been falling,
It runs down and robs time
From your smarting senses
As wilted leaves from black branches.
You walk and dream;
You walk past farms and huts
In which the first lamps are burning
And out as far as you into the unknown
A soft laugh beckons.
But you remain alone;
At best, a stray dog
Follows after you awhile in the darkness,
Until you suddenly drive him off
Away from your colossal loneliness.
Translated by William Stone and Anthony Vivis
Page(s) 51
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