The Black Song of Autumn

It is the song of mud and mist, The song of the shattered round dance, Besieged by the last leaves to fall, The tainted ode of muscular clouds, From gray to grayer, The song of gusts and drizzle, The fractured speech of wind in the trees, Along the bare stems, Like reproaches whistled, Spittle blown from the lips of Aeolus Through the drops of rain. It is the time when inner tremors begin, To the sound of distressing memories, The sound of assaults once thought forgotten, The sound of rejections that crack your heart, The visitation of strange beasts from the past, Those with fangs, with claws, With sharp blades of despair. It is the time when it is not good To walk home alone at night. Dark, dark autumn That makes us hope For the whiteness of the first snow, All roads blurred after summer.