One Night Late In Autumn

For the chrysanthemums in the back yard Are overly dignified, For the cosmos in the front yard Are simply too tall… When I alone looking at the troubled world outside through the window, the Cyrano’s bluffing fades out but, instead, the brownish smell of the dead leaves fill the mouth. For the loneliness unbearable, on this very night, even a cricket behind the sent of brownish leaves does not chirp because his wings were torn to pieces from last night’s hoarfrost. At dawn, the consumptive maiden, the moon, sits by the window of the white ward sickbed, hiding her face with the curtain, weeps because Roxanne cried twice for her one and only true love. Sobs because she had to be blown away like a last leaf on the wall in this autumnal chilling wind.