Under A Dusk Sky

DREAMS OF AUTUMN

I woke falling down from a height, methink of a reminiscence
A fallen angel I once met, and never did I mistook him—
A fancy, for I'd met him once, and once had I betook a shame—
To never look into his eyes.

For eyes remembers what it saw, and what it saw will be just me,
A shame I call it to myself, for I was daunted be relived,
And never took the courage to make him remember me for once;
I never looked into his eyes.

I reckon he's a traveler, neglecting time to pilgrimage
Along the land that I beget; beneath the skies where I conceit
The only grip that I renounce, the only place that I forsake,
The glade of memories I made.

And on the glade of memories, the grasses are not fecund green—
As youthful as a neonate, 'tis old as time, and dead as dead.
Perhaps if death was dead as death, the dead shall die as good as dead—
Flowers shall die, good as dead!

Oh! a traveler still I cry for to maunder among the deathly
Land of my forgotten heart, rebloom the dead! Disperse the scent!
Of flowers sown by traveler that travels my deserted heart,
Disperse the fragrance that he left!

And that he left the only piece of air that turned to stone after
I killed the only memory—I plucked a flower that he left.
And in the flower that I pluck, a key, not bigger than a bud,
A key of something that he’d brought.

And that traveler had left the glade of memories I made
For autumn has just visited the waiting summer of my glade,
And flowers wilt and withered here, and rot and die to wait again—
For seraph's breath of vernal clime.

Here I long for spring to come during my wakened dreams of autumn;
And the outstretch time of autumn laid my mind to senescence
Till I forget the traveler, till I forget of what he's left—
Till I neglect his souvenir.