Before autumn passes, I will leave to wander,
Tread, tread, a small feeble thing swaying in the wind
Below lazy clouds that happily drift away,
In the distant shimmer of an endless sunset.

Leave to wander under the warm evening light,
And ask to be carried away, carried away,
Sprout wings and fly against a growing gale, but I,
Am left to wonder, how far I can be taken,
By an unsure wing whose feathers shake and shiver,
By my body whose hands are pressed against its chest,
Hoping to find its heart, still beating as it should.

Leave to be flown, over rivers, hills and moutains,
Riding the wind, up to a lonely aerie,
Where secluded, bright crimson autumn trees have grown,
Shedding, unendingly, their leaves into the breeze.

Arrive to sit atop, hugging my own body,
To feel the warmth filtering through to my fingers,
To feel my hair flare up and flitter about me,
Lit by the sunlight into a dancing fire.

Wait until the day falls into a gentle night,
Lie down, breathe slowly, softly whisper to myself.
And dream beneath a blanket of stars, forever,
As the careless carmine leaves float down and away.

Before autumn passes, I will be left to sleep,
Until the leaves fall to earth, the earth becomes dust,
Until the dust scatters, before the wind ceases,
Before the world falls silent, before the light dies.

Here is a country ruled by silence.
Empty streets bask in sunlight and absence.
A country of mice and dark windows.
In an audience room dance a few shadows.

The oldest one speaks :
"I am an Eternal Empress ; blessed is my lot.
My subjects have gone, but my rule has not.
Through sunrise and twilight I seat on cold stone,
For one more day I rule, once again to suffer alone."

She oversees a sea of empty homes.
What a poor fate, for one's crown to be so heavy,
For a single soul to bear the eternity of duty.

On the edge of the world, gazing yonder,
Breezing along, never falling over,
They who under the moon flower,
Whom the wind lulls hither and thither...

They chime like small hallowed bells,
Tolling a prayer at sunset,
Their choir tints, echoes, knells,
Ripples through the summer air of a hamlet.

The people look up from the toil and the river,
And pause to listen to the nostalgic ring,
Suddenly one is once again running to one's mother,
Bearing flowers and smiles, across a clearing.

Now the evening cicadas lull one into apathetic bliss.
A dangerous melancholy exhudes from them like a perfume,
Carried by a soft Eastern wind, soft like a lover's kiss.
Now one wishes one could die with them and bloom,
Bloom and flower and accompany the white lillies,
Into the earth.

Looking up from among the evanescent scents,
One sees an expanse above, deep and boundless,
Flowing like a black sea, traversed by mystical currents.
The moon is an island, lost amidst the emptiness,
From whose shore twinkling coral can be seen
Dotting the horizon like a swarm of fireflies.