His sad life has hit bottom

His sad life has hit bottom,

in the trickster laugh of the roses of parting.

Late, the silent child has left

the closed room where the music has fallen silent.

The painful bars at the bottom of the avenue

have slowly creaked open.

Long stifled, dying sound of water drying up,

the distant murmur of voices he has known.

He feels the shadow touch his soul. It is in pain,

and a sharp breeze chafes the crystal.

The child, abandoned by the hand of charity,

in the rustling park where the rain has stopped,

banishes the dream of the past

and sobs alone, surrounded by autumn.