Seasons 3: Autumn Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

And so the day turned,
grasping the quarter of the year,
the newborn, from its hair.

The sun was left with just his colour;
nature smelled the rot of the figs,
with endless vineyards for jewels;
the earth shed tears to the view
of the first morning,
as she felt the arrival of her rust;
the sea wrinkled in her stubbornness;
the sky got sick
and wiped the feathery grains
from his forehead;
the body got heavier,
from the wool and the cotton…

and you soul,
tireless soul,
you became seraphic, serene,
and with hunger
you are reading your book,
as if it were just beginning.