When we met, in your first dayson the field, with warmth and grace, You were calm and full of colors, treating me with tenderness. Ever since you changed your temper, blowing wind into my face ... I still love your colored dress, burning woods over November.
And you fumble through my garden, smashing leaves, undressing trees, carrying rains and memories, fog and cold, without pardon.
When I wait for sun to come, I hear drops of rain around. May I ask with gentle sound: Madame Fall, who angered you?