November, Poem by Charles Cros

I meet you one autumn evening,
A cool, pink and monotonous evening.
In the forgotten park, no one.

All the songs have fallen silent:
I saw the statues shivering,
Under so many fallen leaves.

You are perverse. But what does it matter
The poor lament that brings
The cold wind under the door.

Daughter of autumn, you are surprised
By my monotonous words…
We still have to empty the barrels.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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