To You

Soon the autumn will be burned

All its weeping flowers will be washed by the snow

The time of mourning is still away

And the road is short

The dreary night comes

Burdened with a smell of absence

Your face, when I miss it, turns to a sweet inhalation

With a taste of nectar

From a distance, his voice, running, came to me

From behind the whispers of the clouds and the murmurs of the rain

I closed this door and that window

My fingers were muting my hearing

But it entered

Pulsated with my pulsing

And lightened the darkness that was here