November | final version

The moon slips behind the night,
just silk pulses are left.
Surprises keep sliding
from a cold secret breeze.
Mist coming down from uphill
draws the silhouette of a courtyard -
it emanates an hostile feeling
and softens the horizon here and there.
A scent of holly,
of fragrant burned wood
are spread in a naked garden
amidst the blurred black hedge.
The colour potpourri
of crushed autumn-shed leaves -
the echo of summer songs,
that tells of past love feelings.

Translated by Anna Lamina