Liberty looking into the blue.
The window is open. The air is sharp.
For yellow-red foliage
It takes months interval.
It will be the night - light sickle,
Sparkling in the night harvest.
its sunset, its damage
The last time caressing eyes.
As then, rings box.
But my voice, the air fresh,
Propel this week, was silent for a long time
Under the reeds at'll save,
How pale blue month,
As gold thin hair…
As there swinging in the trees
Forgotten, faded, dead ear…
10 October 1902
