They Were Burning Dead Leaves

They were burning dead leaves. Must oozed with scent,
tar bubbled and blew.
The moonlight glow behind the thistle bent
like a torn rainbow.

The street was a forest, night slid into the heart
of deepest autumn.
A guilty music blew the house apart,
with its fife and drum.

To have this again, just this, just the once more:
I would sink below
autumnal earth and place my right hand in your
hand like a shadow.


- Zsuzsa Rakovszky