Autumn is abundant, infuses, and bemuses; it is pregnant with fruit; but it prognosticates the decay: Autumn is a marvellous display of death! The eye-of-the-bull chrysanthemum stares at you with the autumn's orange stare, in a hypnotic anticipation of perfidious putrefaction: it suggests that it is the time to prepare the marrow in your bones for the frozen times of eternal hibernation: the bleak, albic terrain of desolation and damnation. It says bend on your glacial knees, and pray for spring to de-congeal your static blood: go back into the forest and eat eagerly wild-strawberries and horn-fruit, and spit into the ground the pips of your frigid dreams!
Autumn is the hungry Earth, with its earthly colours of grave, craving the manure, the compost of your flesh, blood, and bones; it eats your veneration: (your body, which, you thought is your possession!) : this Terra is a terrific terror! —Do not worry about your spirit: —it has wings! Birds die in the sky whilst still flying: you are a bird! —Smell the earth! You will return with a body made to be devoured again by the vulture-earth; nothing apocalyptic: you will live, again—and again, for thousands of years: —you are truly immortal—defying Thanatos!
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Topic(s) of this poem: surrealism