November Poem by Shaw Luo

It mustn't be the first time
the cloud gently breaths in the wind
feeling its colorless life
gradually evolved, magnified
before the traces vanish out of sight

It mustn't be the first time
the sun is so hectically occupied
color painting the last maple leaves
before they turn and wave:
Dear, Good-bye! It's almost Christmas time.

Oh it mustn't
it mustn't be the first time
I half close my eyes
reclining on this hillside that we used to hike
hearing your whisper travelling through the shadow of lights
that November always seemed to me
the Norway of the year