AUTUMNAL POEMS: When the crickets hiding in the tomb, in the meadows

AUTUMN: G. Rodari

The hay it is mowed,

the hunter shot.

Autumn is opened:

the cricket has walled in the grave,

in the meadow.

 

 

YELLOW LEAVES: Trilussa

But where do you go,

poor yellow leaves,

as many butterflies

carefree?

You come from afar

or close?

By a forest

or a garden?

And you do not hear the melancholy

of the wind itself

that takes you away?

AUTUMNAL PATTERN: P. Javorov

The north wind blowing over the fields;

he shakes the trees.

And from the branches withered,

it detaches the dead leaves.

The wind scatters them,

far away, in the fields:

only blacks they remain the drums,

that sad shake the bare branches.

AUTUMNAL SEEDS: K. Gibran

Every seed that autumn throws into the depths of the earth,

has a way of its own separate core and shell,

in order to form the leaves, flowers and fruits.

But whatever way,

the purpose of the wanderings of all seeds is identical:

get to stand before the face of the sun.

NIGHT FALL: N. Hikmet

On this autumn night,

I am full of your words,

eternal words like time,

as the raw material.

Heavy words like hand,

sparkling like stars.

From your head, from your flesh,

from your heart,

I received your words,

your words full of you.

Your words, mother.

Your words, love.

Your words, friend.

They were sad, bitter;

They were upbeat, full of hope;

They were courageous, heroic.

Your words,

they were men.