The falling leaves allow the tree to measure

The falling leaves allow the tree to measure
the declination of the Sun. She glances
in the mirror, she whispers a remembrance
above the mud. The stars narrate the treasures

of every era, the games played, the sure
art of a wandering page without balance.
I can't remember, I thought I saw a semblance
of her on the water, the flowers, the pleasure

under a purple autumn. The calendars change
but the days look the same, I am ashamed
of the songs I sing. The colors arrange

themselves in telling patterns, they exclaim
a myth beyond the nations. In the range
of your song all the images look the same.