NOTHING...

Ah,
the soft,
soft playing,
like someone about to cry,
of a song that's woven
out of artifice and moonlight...
Nothing to make us remember
                LIFE

A prelude of courtesies
Or a smile that fade ...
A cold garden in the distance ...
As now in November.
And in the soul that finds it,
just the absurd echo of its empty
                 FLIGHT.

Now in November,
Spring has gone,
Summer has gone,
It is Nothing,
waiting for the next...