I’ve been wondering why
shadows were stretching
as if languid in a late morning
Why the wind
suddenly seemed reserved, uncertain
Washed-out colors
soft and pale under midday sun
as under a chiffon veil
Golden grasses
waving in the eternal end of days
These afternoons
frozen in an agony of joy
too happy to die.
I drove through landscapes
as I’d have crossed a painting
an analog photograph
And then I realized that
in this corner of the world
it was September.

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