The wind is out of sync
with the clouds.
And the swaying trees
have a meaning
which means nothing to me.

Today is shorter than yesterday,
but moves at a slower tempo.
And like a rock, falling
without grace, without desire,
night will now appear.

And in this darkness
there are movements
like the music of cymbals and lutes,
not beyond nature,
inventions of memory, yet
part of its shrill harmony.