Fall

The sickle and the scythe have flashed in the field long since; half of the crop by now is in the granaries. The silver dew will fall on barren rows and the grain gatherers will sing no more this year .
Another day, another day … Long wagons now despoil the mother earth since the early morning hour—and when the moon will scan the field at night from far above—she will already find it in orphaned state .
Translation: 
Language: 
Author of original: 
M. Teitsch
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.