There is no colour in his eyes
He knows the taste of heaven cries
Of autumn rains flow in his beaker
Of fallen leaves in rainy lines

He moons around the drowsin’ roads
He moons away in maple boats
Hunting for blossoms of the fall
Through hazy winds that dreadly howl…

Or in the park, beneath the mild
Apart from rustles of mankind
Against the oak tree being rest
He listens to his splashing chest

Within the splendour of a rhyme
To drops and pops and hops in chime
Of autumn rains flow in his beaker
Of fallen leaves in cloudy shrine…

He moons away in maple boats
He sails by the drowsin’ roads
Hunting for blossoms of the fall
Which dream of his dramatic call…

Then in the outdoor café
Being haunted by some pleurs d’affe
He kisses wet mademoiselle’s lips
Licking off salty raining sips

And in his eyes, like in a rope
Being overborne by sullen dope
Nor autumn lives, neither the fall
Within the mopes of his call...