Old Newspapers

The summer season is over, the leaves on the trees in the park have turned red.

My young time is over and my hair has turned much whiter.

I go to sleep today with forgotten events wrapped around my body.

 

Little by little the wind grows colder.

Little by little, events grow old.

Little by little I am approaching death.

 

Soon winter will come.

Soon snow will fall to cover up the unnecessary.

And spring will come to wash it all away.

 

If I disappear next year, no one will notice.

No record will be kept.

No one will sleep with me wrapped around their body.