You will be a lost soul.
Fortunes have forgotten you
while weaving threads
of thin spider
for the knotted mottled
unseen rug of destinies.
You are a latecomer.

In November is so much
desire of death.
The wind blows dust
from of the fountains arm,
long neck giraffes
ruminating at the crossroads.
The poplars hear
their own melancholy rustle.
The autumn's gold
burns in the cold ratting-pool
of the matter.

There is much desire
of death in November.
Cats are walking
on the putrid fences.
In the hospitals of fear
the lonesome are writing
letters of lost love.

Adieu, my soul.
I will pass through the shades
which the mountain throws
to the most distant equinox.
I am a late man.

They say that in the winter
which has followed
my coming into the world
there was rich and beautiful snow.