In Red Foliage Full of Guitars...
In red foliage full of guitars
The girls' yellow hair blows
At the fence, where sunflowers stand.
A golden cart drives through the clouds.
In the rest of brown shadows
The old grow silent [and] embrace dim-wittedly.
Orphans sing sweetly for vespers.
Flies buzz in yellow steams.
At the brook the women still wash.
The hung-up linens billow.
The small child, whom I have long liked,
Comes again through evening's grayness.
Sparrows fall from mild skies
Into green holes filled with rottenness.
A smell of bread and harsh spices
Feigns recovery to the hungry one.
~Why on Earth is it that I'm drawn to poets who can't be translated?
Picture found here.
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