The leaves are falling down

like tears on a bruised cheek;

a child with broken dreams,


deprived of summer nights,

of hopes and childish games,

it looks like dying flower.


The days are turning sour,

the rain is going to betray us,

not withstanding cold and fear.


We’ll step back into the world

of walls and pictures of the past,

shivering and thinking fast:


Was it real hiding under the shades?

Was it real running through the rye,

among the fields of golden colour?


The leaves will fall so heavy

like tears on a lonely grave.


3 September, 2016

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