Can I love them for what they were,
after the wind, once their friend,
has incised their delicate necks,
like an ethereal Nosferatu, famished
for the taste of death.
By then, in early December,
after the first snowfall,
only emaciated stems, sapless,
colorless fingers pointing
to the elements as if to say:
Assassin, my nemesis, I am betrayed.
Will it be enough to remember
the violets, the crimsons, the subtle greens
that not that long ago mirrored
the sun back in colors
that seemed to make love to my senses.
Looking there, to the place
where life vibrated and now is stilled,
will sadness rise, anger?
Winter will divulge these things;
he will tell me soon enough,
and most willingly;
but summer is singing,
and since its song is fleeting
and wind borne,
I have to stop and listen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.