The double autumn ... Yes autumn is here.

The sea and wind is alive while the land
does not move.
The grave autumn
of the coast
covers
the still light of the land
with its death, but the roaming sea,
the sea keeps living.

There is not one single drop
of sleep,
death,
or night in her combat:
all the machines
of water,
the blue
cauldrons,
the crackling factories
of wind crowing
the waves with
its violent flowers,
all
alive as
the viscera
of the bull,
as the fire in music,
as the act
of amorous union.

The work of autumn
on the land have always
been obscure;
immobile
roots, seeds submerged
in time and above
only
the corolla of the cold,
a vague
aroma of leaves dissolving
itself in gold:
nothing.
An ax
in the forest breaks
a trunk of crystals,
later,
evening falls and the land
place a black 
mask
upon her face.

But the sea,
does not rest, doesn't sleep, has not died.
Its belly grows by night
which warped the wet stars,
like wheat in the dawn.
It grows,
throbs,
and cries like a lost
child
that only with the beat
of daybreak like a drum,
wakes gigantic
and grows rough.
All its hands move,
its incessant organism,
its extensive teeth,
its business
with salt, with sun, with silver,
all
is moved,
is stirred with its levelling
springs,
with the combat of its movement,
while the sad
autumn
passes
over the land.