After Summer Autumn is always brushed Under the carpet Like a half-baked afterthought Before the Winter arrives With its blanket Of snow-rolled blues.
At the beginning of Autumn There is a hesitation In the breeze Before the clouds Darken the sky And poison us slowly With mustard gas.
There is a sadness In the half-cut sun Flickering once more Before the clouds Carry the sun away Like a funeral director As an ornament Of a mystery Dying with a silent scream,
Before setting their Compasses north Never to be seen again.
(Previously published on http://static.inexsilio.com/pdf/2013_spring.pdf)