At evening the autumn woodlands ring
With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains
And lakes of blue, the sun
More darkly rolls. The night surrounds
Warriors dying and the wild lament
Of their fragmented mouths.
Yet silently there gather in the willow combe
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god,
Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
All roads lead to black decay.
Under golden branching of the night and stars
A sister's shadow sways through the still grove
To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads.
And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes resound.
O prouder mourning! - You brazen altars,
The spirit's hot flame is fed now by a tremendous pain:
The grandsons, unborn.

Dreamless sleep - the dusky Eagles
nightlong rush about my head,
man's golden image drowned
in timeless icy tides. On jagged reefs
his purpling body. Dark
echoes sound above the seas.

Stormy sadness' sister, see
our lonely skiff sunk down
by starry skies:
the silent face of night.

Each to do in the morn
he stays focused on
still suffers the nagging doubt
something he's leaving out.

Morn is the rush hour.

giving the parrots a shower
feeding budgies making tea
making things for office ready.

Morn is the time for hurried food.

foul temper sullen mood
in the monstrous urgency
forgetting all decency.

The volatile morn fast departs.

it's enough if on time he starts
for a place he must be for hours' grind
leaving nothing behind *but his mind!