The Quiet Song of the Wind

Gently, like the breath of an autumn evening,
Rain falls on old windows – and the heart
Trembles, like a string that knows only nostalgia.
The moon reads your name in the air, timidly,
And the night-flute pulls long, sorrowful notes.
The scent of lavender and tea burns in an empty chair,
And every impression is a leaf that dared not fall.

Oh, how quietly words tear, like wings,
When you want to say: “Stay,” – but remain silent.
A tear flows across the lips and becomes a pearl of memory;
The song of the wind barely audibly strokes the weariness of the pillows.
And in that half-sleep, where memory is glass-like and transparent,
I see you returning – or is it only the heart?
But the music remains: thin, tart as wormwood,
And I listen to it, until nothing answers anymore.