The summer sun was warm; the sky was high;
The days seemed endless; that was in July.
Now trees are wet; their boughs are black and bare,
And autumn winds are moaning in despair.
Grey beards of clouds are on the aerials, caught.
The clouds are weeping over the hope’s sad lot.
The heaven’s crying in an endless rain
Bemoaning all the dreams that were in vain.
Weep, cry, cold heaven, pour rain on my head,
On wilted grass, on bushes dark and dead.
Let silver drops drown sadness and all grief
Like withered flowers, like a fallen leaf.
Weep, northern heaven; soon those bitter tears
Will tinkle on the puddles turned to ice
And frost will drive away all ghostly fears
When snow creates stark beauty in surprise.
And life will lure, entice us, life will snare.
A new and glorious spring will cast its spell,
Create new dreams; fulfillment will be rare.
But that will be another tale to tell.