It's all over now…
The razor of the sunrise
has cut the merging
'tween the earth and sky.
And, like an Indian squaw,
the Indian Summer cries,
and in the morning
one can smell the near snow fly.
The self-invited guests
knock on my windows.
They are the maple leaves
like autumn lonely widows.
However hard you're knocking
on my windowpane,
you won't avoid the blizzard,
all the same.
It's all over now…
Like a cigar-end, a fire-fly
's been burnt heroically down
between the stars.
And, like an Indian squaw,
the Indian Summer cries
hiding her face
in damp dark shoulders of the maples.
The unexpected troubles
knock on my door
and haunt my threshold
more and more.
However hard you try
and loudly call my name,
in spring you'll melt
in sunnny rays and rains.
It's all over now…
Like shooting
in a poet's chest
right through, in a flash…
And all night long
we've mourned for the Indian Summer
going to west
and drink to one,
that next year will be born.