The bumblebee, which came
Into the room from the sun
Like a flying guitar
Wakes up the sleeping melancholy.
The trees standing with its fingers
Dripped in the yellow
And dispassionate sky
Draped in deep blue
Suspends me like a feather
In a remorseful painting of still-life-

Out over there,
Stands the season of Indian summer
Bathing the objects in the pouring sunshine;
Wind lies motionless
And bird passes across
Drawing a line as it were
Between the two worlds of motion and stagnation
Time flows into
Infinity in the silence of man and melody
The bird in the midair, balancing itself
With its wings in a horizontal line
To achieve motionlessness,
Is a wall clock in the sky
With its hands
On three and nine-