I think at last my heart may fathom,

a glimpse of the disbelievers’ maxim;

what devotion is I no longer know,

thus so knowledge may knowingly go.

The falling leaves my limbs embrace,

October breezes brushing my face;

most gravely Pyotr my hand folds,

your song quivers to my fluttering grace.

‘Gentlemen, a genius!’ How I abhor that phrase!

This world of idols in voguish craze;

the sun I bear for these steady figures,

at night my illness in silence scourges.

I desire love, yet love I fear,

for all the misty memories I hear.

No more do I my sensibilities sense,

than the angel’s wish to toy or to recompense.


The sepia air most decorously scorns,

mankind racing towards its mourns;

this infliction of life I cannot escape,

my being is not gallant, but forlorn,

must I right this besieging wrong?

Quietly weeps his Autumn song.

Published in: on 27/10/2016 at 10:41 PM  Leave a Comment