# Melancholy A grey dove settles on the window sill— not mine, perhaps, but drawn to something here, some sweetness in the air, or just the will of wandering. I watch it disappear into the folds of afternoon. The light has turned a shade I have no name for—call it the colour of a sigh, or something slight that breaks, then mends itself. I cannot halt it. There is a room inside me, dust and bare, where silence pools like water. I have tried to fill it with the ordinary—prayer, music, the faces of the ones who died before I knew their names. But nothing stays. The dove returns. It leaves. The window greys. And I am here, counting these hollow days, the way a rosary counts its broken beads.

It is autumn. I am alone. I think of you. The leaves fall...
The melody of a sorrow I ignore wanders through me.
The wind, shaking withered anguish,
passes like a memory through the forest of sound.

It is autumn. It seems a dream renounces itself,
that disenchantment scatters the ephemeral finery...
A golden pomp that yields to death,
forms with the withered landscape a rain of wings.

I am alone. Autumn feels like a journey...
There is a soul that weeps because someone says farewell.
This decline of plants that stains the landscape red,
it meets my discouraged serenity.

I think of you, hearing a song lost in the distance.
They sing of dead things, the music of flight.
As my fallen love keeps its hope alive,
the withered forest yearns to rise toward heaven.

The leaves are falling. The tragic jungle collapses.
A willow spreads like a generous fountain.
The most varied leaves share the same grave,
and mingled together they roll in the same torrent.

You are like a breeze through my resonant garden.
My life is a branch that, in your path, you strip bare;
and the winds will carry it to a destination I do not know.
It is autumn. I am alone. I think of you. The leaves are falling...