The morning is dyed in its swing
with gray clouds that in the sky
they take over the space with carelessness
and the wind sweeps the ground with disdain.
Autumn leaves with ocher laziness,
wake up and listen to the sounds of the air,
they swirl with old grace
filling the atmosphere with old warmth.
But at the end of the dance the wind triumphs,
plunging them into whirlwind vertigos,
and can no longer dance to their breath.
They rise without concert in a moment,
spinning swirl spiral
and fall to the ground like a lament.
Translation: Annabel Villar, Uruguay/España and Janine Troutman, Germany