Woods White with fire
Poems of Shantiam
Cimenan, Autumn
They looked at each other, those trees,
kissed by thousands of raindrops,
soft grey cloud rained the night
stealthily over the meadow.
A mountain brook so heavy
with a sigh it reluctantly carried
the already faded splendour of summer
into the waiting cold arms of autumn.
Ever further the sea,
sad forgotten shores,
with a shudder they hear the approach
of echoes,
heavy footsteps of winter,
carried from the valleys of Cimenan.
Silently, almost secretly,
hope on its misty, capricious wings
brushes the faces of mountains.
The mournful pale sun
turns away from the sorrow;
nightingales sleep until spring.
© Aigha
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