In midst of waves, there are silver beads

And scraped by time paints of the white enamel…

I so like the morns which autumn breeds,

For their caress, so short and gentle.


And I do like the foam on the shore,

When it again is whitening in mire,

And, greedy, I am hiding here a store

Of hazy days, while skies are full of fire.


But somewhere there, they’re roaming in flame,

The same ones as I am, without name and number,

And somebody’s young being – just the same –

Instead of me, is ceasing in sad amber.