El otoño se acerca...

Abandoned to the languid stupor that prolongs autumnal melancholy, the last rose trembles because of this and is more beautiful as it's later. And in a soft slowness, blessed with the heavy calm that afternoon pours out, the rose's shedding passes through death's tranquil hands. That summer, delicate and solemn, was life. It was life, and now it's like a storm tormenting ghostly ships crossing memory. The autumn sea is dying and there are children who stab statues and waves drag broken candelabras and sabers. Someone I don't know chases me crying - but I know the summer was life.