The Return

Dry orange leaves scattered on the ground
swiped by the wuthering wind’s hound.
Howling – it is not the wind; but the forest;
mournful for the coming of the winter arrest…

Flowers and birds in one chorus bid farewell;
spiders and snakes hide in the underground’s shell;
uneasy waiting for the arrival of Winter’s Brigade;
the first snowflake like a ballerina introduces the parade…

White, white; in the winter it is all quiet, quiet;
not like in the grave, unburden of the life’s wite –
We hear the icy tittering of the forest’s branches
and underneath the snow crust seasons spirits echoes…

Do not lament, forest, do not waste your crystal tears;
long you saw the hare’s sprint and the slumbering bears
and in the immense whiteness you feel the abandon;
when finally green erupts warmed by the torch in the horizon…

Snow melts and butterflies cover the trees with a lively shroud,
the ephemeral nightingale appears with his godly sound,
It is summer and I return, to lose myself in your deep wood;
and before the specular lake, rest where my heart withstood.