Those November days I ought to know so well;
How they might often pass like a quick breathe,
Amidst you at once, and soon leaving nothing left.

The puddles after storms would emerge standing swamps;
And the cloudy sky would cast a constant haze.
Around, silently, life would go on, for countless days.

My journal would saturate like that of one
A bard weeping who had cried upon
           Just a mild tune to cast a moment away.