Autumn

Slowly, followed by the dog,

we retrace the route we know all too well.

Pale autumn is bleeding at the end of the avenue,

and mourning women pass by on the horizon.

The air is as calm and sad

as if it were in the inner courtyard of a hospice or a prison,

and each golden leaf falls, when its time has come,

like a memory, slowly, to the grass.

Silence walks between us... lying hearts,

each tired of the journey and ripe for other dreams,

selfishly longing to return to port...

But tonight the woods are so full of sadness

that our hearts are stirred in their turn

and forget themselves in speaking of the past, under the drowsy sky,

in whispers, as of a dead child...