When the sun draws to a close
night with silence, sweet lonely silence beckon, compel us
to leave this reality - pale face of the world-
making us dreaming about immortallity near the haunted shores of
On the dark fields overgrown with the pale flowers of the asphodels,
the fleshless light shadows of the dead rampage through these fields.
they complain about their cheerless life without the light and desires.
their groans are quietly heard, barely perceptible remind me - us -
the same as they, persecuted by the autumns winds
[11 february 1999]