Nothing lasts forever, so summer must end, but the time between summer and winter, autumn, has some colored moments.
An Autumnal Garden
Leaves fall slightly, the foliage gilds
And in the mornings mists rise,
Dull and dreary, making us forget
The great deeds of summer, gone.
When I look along the trees,
I often recognise empty branches,
Some still bear fruit in the orchard
And asters rustle, the last blossom.
When noon comes, later in the day,
The mighty sun shines once more, surely,
The leaves fall under an arch-blue sky.
It has become autumn in my world,
The great deeds of summer are forgotten.
I look anxiously at the calendar,
The dark festivals of the rest of the year,
The days of the dead, leaves fall slightly.
* * *
Grey is the most boring colour,
A shade for people with empty hearts,
Hollow heads and for those without ideas, taking
Pride and prejudice would choose white or black,
Those with an open mind appreciate the rainbow,
But grey is the most boring colour,
The colour of the undead walking,
Preferred to those who haven’t a soul
Anymore, never more,
For those missing principles or ideals,
For they have no substance at all:
The Grey Men, who take your lifetime
To be in greyness, shading
Grey is the most boring colour.
* * *
Unfortunately, I have met people in my life
Who were completely rotten inside,
Who lived their nightmares, only feeling
When they were assassinated nightly,
Shadowed, who fed on the life of others,
On the kindness of small, weak animals,
Who they absorbed constantly,
Because they were kept alive
With blood magic only.
I never really understood such things,
They seemed strange and false to me
And therefore alienated me,
Because other people’s demons
Were never a part of me.
It is perhaps better that the light
Has driven them out of my life.
After all, there is enough other evil left
That’s at least not undead.
* * *
I wander as a stranger through worlds
That do not belong to me, nor do I to them,
And one can actually feel joy in it,
Even if the knowledge is missing,
You can delight in flowers, grasses
And many a beautiful vista.
I do not know what future days will bring
And whether one can trust a world
That may have been built by demiurges
Out of cunning and deceit,
To generate Mora – not wisdom,
Though they pretend to be very gnostic.
But intentions alone do not determine
The course of our lives, in or outside,
Archons are not almighty,
They only have the power we grant them,
It always depends on what we make of it:
So be confident, curious and joyful!
* * *