Summer was killed with the first drop of rain

Moistening the words that had given birth to starlight.

All those words whose single goal of you.

Where will we stretch our hands now the weather no longer takes us into account?

On what will we rest our eyes now the distant horizons have been shipwrecked by    the clouds

Now that your eyelashes have closed over our landscapes

And-as through the fog passed through us-

We are left alone, utterly alone, encircled by your dead images？

Forehead to windowpane we keep watch for the new sorrow

Death will not lay us low so long as You exist

So long as there exists a wind elsewhere to enjoy you fully

To clothe you from close at hand as our hope clothes you from far away

So long as there exists elsewhere

A green plain reaching beyond your laughter to the sun

Telling the sun secretly how we meet again

No, it is not death we will confront

But the minutest autumnal raindrop

An obscure feeling

The smell of wet earth in our souls that grow continually farther apart.

And if your hands is not in our hands

If our blood is not in the veins of your dreams,

The light in the immaculate sky

And the unseen music inside us

Still bind us, sad wayfarer, to the world

It is the damp wind, the autumnal hour, the separation,

The elbow’s bitter prop on the memory

That awakens when night starts to cut us off from the light

Behind the square window facing towards grief

Revealing nothing

Because it has already become unseen music flame in the fireplace,

chime of the huge clock on the wall

Because it has already become

A poem, line succeeding line, sound keeping pace with the rain,

tears and words—

words not like others but those single goal is You.