Torn by the wind
Like by glacial spear
Raining, it was bleeding down
Heavy lead-ripe firmament

Through the moaning wind
Had whispered
Covering the soil
Withered
Leaves

As a black hovering clouds
Ghost fogs whirled
Transparent eyes of the lake
Peer into the skies
Like if they gape bottomless

In rawness of mists hum
Had rustled
Dying
Withered
Leaves

In the wood meadows
Flowers faded
Strangled by dew at the morrow hour