From capital into the wood,
Tripping over brushwood.
Those Sunday trips as in days of old
With friends, relatives or a blonde.

Everywhere there is silence – decadence,
Interrupted by far-away blues of cars passing by.
If we saw each other here again – negligence,
We’d walk as passers-by.

Yellow trees, touched by autumn.
Sound of leaves cracking under my feet.
Red ivy leaves surround a pine,
As memory consumes our mind.

“I'd do anything for you”, I used tell you here,
And you would nervously nod to me.
The sun swiftly rolls behind the hill, which is dust,
As our love was consumed by rust.

Night-time news resurface,
I want to run away from the world’s face,
I can’t hear or stand them,
I am hiding my weakness,
Brewing tea with cardamom,
Unable to change any entity,
Nor are we supposed, would say Solomon.
As everything is a vanity.

We talk politics and TV series,
Strong wind starts blowing through the wood.
“Did you say Mistral and mithril?” - you would have asked,
If you were here, not gone for good.

The sun will rise again,
Unlike past love, our game
Leaves will grow,
Yet not the same.

02/10/2022