La nature déchire ses manuscrits, démolit sa bibliothèque, gaule rageusement ses derniers fruits….
Nature is tearing up her manuscripts, demolishing her library, madly goading her last fruit from the trees....
Francis Ponge, La fin de l’automne
my beloved with the hair like autumn,
with the smell of autumn wind in your hair,
i will carry red leaves to make you a dress, a veil,
and you will go through the fog of morning
and beneath the muted birdcalls of afternoon,
warm in your scarlet, rustling dress --
as i have touched the leaves
to warm you, as i have gathered
my wounded breath to give you,
here, in the folds of these dying colors