Our earth has turned its shadowmaker sideways.
A treeline shields you, Alzbeta,
from the oncoming traffic of late-afternoon sun
as you stroll the green with a small blond-haired girl.
Birdsongs have pecked the autumn to death.
Alzbeta, November must be lovestruck.
How else can it shirk its duty of being cold?
How else can it confuse its rays?
In this careless sunsong and birdlight,
I cannot say which hair shines more goldenly:
the blond or your black.
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