In the afternoon
It arrives
The darkness
Of the believers
In the cross
In his Holiness
The black crows of the church
On the streets
Spreading their psalms
As victims of diseases
The silence
Every day in the afternoon
Their preaching of their book
And their holy clock
Tick, tock, Tick, tock
Devoutness and purity
The mirth gone
The flowers withering away
The grey, only the grey
Every day in the afternoon
It’s Sunday

I’ll see you in Autumn
When the days are short and the nights long
Filled with words
To pick them out of the cold evening air
The air so thick, clouds packed with thoughts
The memories of Poe and Frost, so close by
Where are you, my Sylvia, Emmy and my gliding Lizzy
The smell of fallen leaves
Creating mountains to ascend
Taking the darkness in
The trees become brains
To cerebrate, to ponder
As mates
Now the air is thin, Spring arrived
Eyes everywhere
No more safely hiding
Or a walk in the dark
The white, clean blossom, the green overwhelming
The light burning, day after day
Morning after morning
Night after night
Dreams lost, the field gone,
No more shadows to capture
Waiting for the dark months of pumkins
Hazelnuts, smelling woods and sniffing dogs
Colourful mushrooms, dancing dwarfs and elves
The morning melancholy mists
Thinking of her
Autumn is for writers
The black nights feeding them, pleasing them
With their touch and mysterious breath
Now there is only Blue
We put away our pens, till the next Autumn
When we’ll meet again and dance in otherly worlds
Till the next winter
Longing for the first sunshine
Her brushes warm and tender
Outbursts of blooming
Dreaming of fields full of harvest
Are we here just to dream
And not to live it, when it’s there
I’ll see you in Autumn..