Torn by the wind Like by glacial spear Raining, it was bleeding down Heavy lead-ripe firmament Through the moaning wind Had whispered Covering the soil Withered Leaves As a black hovering clouds Ghost fogs whirled Transparent eyes of the lake Peer into the skies Like if they gape bottomless In rawness of mists hum Had rustled Dying Withered Leaves In the wood meadows Flowers faded Strangled by dew at the morrow hour