Here I have fondled on the autumn of suggestions, And that it is crucial to use the scoop and the rakes, even the fakes;
My boyhood was only a generous flood, Mingled here and there by the gifted sun, I was not a moody son;
The explosion and the moisture have wreaked such devastation, That very small vermilion fruit lingers on my lawn;
To recompose the flooded soils, Whither the moisture thrusts wide, the chasms as enormous as ancient shrines;
Now, who perceives the fresh flowers that I fantasize about, Who will unearth this earth, bathed like a shore;
And the doubtful rival that gnaws our spirits, from the blood that we lose swells, matures powerful and bold;
Where is the magical sustenance, that would provoke them to become influential? O grief! oh, the guilt! Only the distance consumes my existence.