The insatiable hunger of the cloud
devoured even the brighter half of the sky.
Along the furrowed lines of the plain
its gaze lingered,
and a fierce neigh of rage
echoed through the winding mountain.
Drops, unceasing,
fell upon the wrinkled skin of the trees.
It seemed, this year
autumn wore another garment.
A flock of migrant swallows,
in arrow-shaped formation,
shot forth as if from the bow,
and tore apart the sullen chest of the horizon.
The rustle of footsteps on leaves
was heard in the silence of the alley.
It seemed, this year
autumn was sketching
a new design
upon tomorrow’s tablet.
The chill of dawn’s mist
clung to the skin
in the solitude of the room.
The faint flame of the sun
crept along the house’s wall.
Yet the garden
still took pride
in the seduction of the red rose.
And the proud poplar,
after the mighty storm of night,
again brushed its head
against the sky.
It seemed,
autumn at last arranged
its different play
upon the final stage.
Arsalan – Wiesbaden
15 September 2025
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