Is there no beauty

in the slow wither

of things,

once exultant of life?

How not to be moved

by the brilliance of the moment, Eternal,

that will never come back?

The glow of autumn

silent putrefaction precedes

in which the seeds germinate

of a spring, already present, but

invisible yet.

Dokushô Villalba

14 nov. 2020

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