In the season of dusk and sadness,
I recall flights of little swallows across
the sleepy skies of summer.
‘Is this it? ' asks a baffled man.
A blackbird on the chimney squawks,
'There'll never be another springtime'
then it jeers and mocks him.
The jester loves the young queen,
and a mournful owl on the roof
hoots the prince's final lines:
‘The rest is silence.*'
The trees, withered and almost bare,
plead with Persephone to stay—
they know September is almost here.
* Hamlet's final line
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem