Autumn
I no longer know if it’s autumn outside
or only within me.
The trees have withdrawn into their bones,
like saints weary of light.
The air smells of sanctified forgetting,
of silence washed in rain.
From every cloud drips a question
no one dares to speak anymore.
Sometimes the wind passes through me,
and I feel my soul move,
like a leaf caught between two worlds:
one that is dying,
and one just learning to breathe.
Autumn is, in truth, a test of faith:
to watch everything vanish
and still say it is good,
for in the emptiness that remains
there fits another form of God.
And then you understand:
it is not about ending,
nor about departure,
but about that single moment when the leaf,
before it falls,
knows exactly who it was.
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