The house of the wandering pigeon, autumn

I am hopelessly ill with you, Master Autumn,
and my disease, like life, is incurable.
He mows the souls of mortals like leaves,
together with the leaves we break off, we fly.

We fly through your Workshop, eternal genius,
to fall at your feet and die.
Not for good - yet from boring smoldering
spring will not distract, will not convince to see.

But the purpose of a flower is always a ripe autumn fruit,
and the role of the fruit is to rot and germinate.
And the more magnificent and hasty bloom,
the sooner the fruit and dust are in the hand.

The art of withering, elevating death to happiness,
autumn teaches us every year of God.
I am taking a lesson from you, my genius Master,
to sprout in spirit like a new tree fruit!

Mayorov Oleg