The wood seems to be tired.
Preparation of all alive to the lingering somnambulist.
Disturbing feelings of forthcoming separation, loss.
The last elaborate trees apparel in yellow-orange-purple colors.
Autumn had sewed to the trees exclusive sundresses.
And they flaunt, as if brides at the fair.
But tomorrow they will be shamelessly naked
by the severe husband November.
…Hard, gray-haired tresses of grasses had stretched along
a cooling down body of the earth –
the old mother-wet nurse.
Bustle of all alive. It’s no time to run into a stupor
with silly contemplation of the rash nature’s changes.
The senior brother of November is even more harsh.
Struggle for a survival comes from subconsciousness...
Cold lead jets flow downwards from the sky-watering can.
The empty, decomposed bird's-nest-caps are based upon
forgotten old pegs-antlers.
Sensation of the cold, the fallen asleep unreality…
Like winter landscapes of Brueghel.
Only fur-trees as an old maidens-votaries are majesticly quiet.
The God is mercy.
He had allowed them not to remove the green dresses.
And tomorrow the house-keeper of November will cover
the traces and marks of marriage-night
by white sheet.
Birches, maples, aspens will fall asleep at last…
Till the Spring...