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Poem

In the days that gradually thin, sprinkled with the last strands of sand,
Evening descends upon my old and warm soul,
Bony and stiff fingers, yearning for the warmth of the waning summer,
As the approach of autumn whispers again in the jingle of copper leaves.
My knees, never masters of the paths we'd still wander,
Bend under the weight of memories etched on the lane of childhood,
Even the witch hazel, which long soothed my skin, now seems powerless,
And my deep cough echoes ceaselessly, through the room emptied of your warmth.
The plants, satiated with green, begin to dress in the somber attire of September,
A prelude that envelopes nature in brown and gold, revealing a bittersweet brilliance,
While the forsythias have long turned into brown skeletons,
And the last guests of summer lounge in my garden, grumpy marigolds on the sill.
Mid-September, when the day slowly weaves its scythe,
And the sun, relentless, hastens towards the horizon of oblivion,
My room watches over my bedspread, once a tapestry of hues, now just faded thoughts,
Marigolds - the vestal virgins reminding me of the sun that no longer seeks me out.
Let us be the last, we, the withered season and I, in our melancholic merging,
In this composition of rises and falls, a final duet with the fleeting time,
With every breath more subdued and every heartbeat vibrating towards silence,
I, the poet of my final act, write farewell in autumnal notes, on the score of the universe.

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