Summer was killed with the first drop of rain
Moistening the words that had given birth to starlight.
All those words whose single goal of you.
Where will we stretch our hands now the weather no longer takes us into account?
On what will we rest our eyes now the distant horizons have been shipwrecked by the clouds
Now that your eyelashes have closed over our landscapes
And-as through the fog passed through us-
We are left alone, utterly alone, encircled by your dead images？
Forehead to windowpane we keep watch for the new sorrow
Death will not lay us low so long as You exist
So long as there exists a wind elsewhere to enjoy you fully
To clothe you from close at hand as our hope clothes you from far away
So long as there exists elsewhere
A green plain reaching beyond your laughter to the sun
Telling the sun secretly how we meet again
No, it is not death we will confront
But the minutest autumnal raindrop
An obscure feeling
The smell of wet earth in our souls that grow continually farther apart.
And if your hands is not in our hands
If our blood is not in the veins of your dreams,
The light in the immaculate sky
And the unseen music inside us
Still bind us, sad wayfarer, to the world
It is the damp wind, the autumnal hour, the separation,
The elbow’s bitter prop on the memory
That awakens when night starts to cut us off from the light
Behind the square window facing towards grief
Because it has already become unseen music flame in the fireplace,
chime of the huge clock on the wall
Because it has already become
A poem, line succeeding line, sound keeping pace with the rain,
tears and words—
words not like others but those single goal is You.