Saturday, 10 October 2015

Autumn poem


















The sound of a lonely crow

a house bat making his last few rounds

Left-over clouds turning red

it is Autumn






Freed from the burden of eternal happiness

I can rest
and grow


Maybe I’m a Moomin

and I should fill my tummy with needles of pine,
and go to sleep


A deep dreamless sleep 

Oblivious to red burning meadows

only wake up to the returning swallows




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