Last days of a dying love, raindrops

Last days of a dying love, raindrops

detached one by one from the leaves by the wind,

muffled, drawn-out notes on a harpsichord,

rows of petals of aging roses.

Last days, far flight of fleeing doves,

stars blotted out by the sleep-drunken dawn;

last days, chaplet of transparent tears

sparkling in the shadows and never wiped away.

And when the light footfall of she whom I loved,

and her sad voice trailing off toward the west,

no longer frighten the blackbirds in the hedges,

I will read my fate in the dead water

where the lonely house bends and trembles,

and the rooms will find their souls moved by my childish complaint.