September

The gardens full of gold and decay, With lure of purple of the swelling ailments, And tardy heat of sun in curves of sunbeam’s remnants, Unable to distil into the fragrant spray. The carpets’ yellow silk and traces, roughly laid, And the avowed false of the preceding meeting, And ponds of parks, extinguished, deep and sad, And ready long ago for suffering and missing… But ones’ hearts only seek past beauty in decays, Just the allurement of enchanted forces, And they, who’ve tested the unearthly lotus, Are thrilled by fragrance of autumnal days.