They Were Burning Dead Leaves

They were burning dead leaves.  Must oozed with scent,

tar bubbled and blew.

The moonlight glow behind the thistle bent

like a torn rainbow.

 

The street was a forest, night slid into the heart

of deepest autumn.

A guilty music blew the house aprt

with its fife and drum.

 

To have this again, just this, just the once more:

I would sink below

autumnal earth and place my right hand in your

hand like a shadow.

 

Zsuzsa Rakovszky

 

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