𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗻�

Bark of the night tree, knives born from mold

they whisper to you names, time and hearts.

A word that was sleeping when we heard it

slips under the foliage:

Autumn will be eloquent, more eloquent the hand that gathers it,

fresh as the poppy of oblivion the mouth that kisses her.

Paul Celan