Autumn Is Not Here

 

Autumn is not here.

I looked everywhere -

in the brown fields scorched by the long, dry summer,

under the trees that still stand

their bark black and carbonized, their essence eaten by fire,

in the too clear, too blue sky that sear your sight.

 But I found only summer, infinite, never-ending, interminable summer.

Are you here, autumn?

I whispered in Emmaus, in the shadow of the church

but only the crazed song of the cicadas answered me.

Are you here, autumn?

I asked the waves crashing on the shore,

but only the sharp, briny wind scratched my cheeks.

 

Are you here, autumn?

I shouted in the desert

my throat burned by the white, searing air

but only the sand, coarse and singed my eyelashes.

Are you here, autumn,

I asked again.

Maybe you didn’t hear me.

But nobody answered.

Because autumn is not here.

It is hiding in the heart of a mountain

far far away

where the forest is deep and eternal

and the rain is singing softly on the thatched roofs,

in the stormy water of the lake that reflects the gray, heavy clouds

(where sometimes, a dark silhouette is seen riding a Balaur).

Autumn is not here,

In hides in the park, under fallen leaves,

speaking softly about lost loves and broken dreams.

Autumn is not here

It hides in childhood memories,

in scents and aromas, so rich that are carved in my soul forever.

So, don’t go looking for autumn.

It is not here.