forwards inter
A first icy wind hisses. At the glass of the windows are
leaves her runway
in pale light, and without measure.
The moon is round plate of white porcelain.
It has long been cold at night, the day starts at six
auszublaun already twilight.
The year given the accolade,
rises even to the gentleman in gold and brown.
November Near colors!
My curtsy gives way to gloom: the time flies away from me?
The summer came and he fell apart.
Too fast. I am cold. A first icy wind hisses from the north.
.
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