Autumn sunlight illuminates a spectacle of decay. In spring and summer bumblebees and larks sang along with the bright blossoms in any shade of colour. But by now all have left the gardens, parks and orchards. There is no singing in autumn. The reds and yellows of foliage are silent ones.
Birds are gathering for their flight southwards and only the crows’ croaking bids them good-bye. Leaves have metamorphed into bodiless forms and hover as colourful spheric lights in the branches . You’re gazing at them, trying to hold on to these pretty images. Still, they only seem to be waiting for the split-second to float down and decay on the wet earth. Later, rain clashes with a harsh clang against the barrenness of wood.
Who is left to sing the autumn opera of oranges, yellows and reds before they turn into a brownish mesh along the roads and in the paths?
Autumn is the time of separation, a season of absolutely no return. Here and there, a poet will lament his many losses. From his window, he will stare for long hours at the shiny black birds which overnight have assembled in great numbers on the bare branches of the old lime tree.