tones of autumn

as always happened and will continue to happen, the weather cooled hesitantly around here, the days shortened and the leaves turned yellow, a cycle of time dissolving itself into another that emerges silently like water from beneath the fine sand of a forgotten hourglass, a ritual endlessly repeated by time through its own history.
not long ago it was the time for the end of crops, the filling of barns, weddings and festivals taking place in an interlude between the heath and the severe winter.
I don't know if everything changed here or just something...perhaps the weather announcing its change, following the cycle of nature. many questions flow in the air, enhanced by the early darkness of evening lit by the multi-coloured inviting neon lights.
death is daily announced, both lonely or collectively, and with the change of weather much more has changed, whether we call it power or counter-power, one originating the other, which of them more lost of its own sources.
However, that wood carved arhat or that other clay sculpted lohan remain, both of them indifferent, looking inwards where everything is, peace also, and journeys that men avoid.
men rather travel, the arrogant and the humble, all heading in the same direction, some taking the large roads while others walk the small humble alleys, inexorably leading to the levelling dust.
apart from this, violence in all forms unfold both silently or explosively, removing innocence from the face of the earth, as all sides, like coins, have two faces and the coins have not stop rolling yet.
on this city, the old arcades of the centre are almost naked of blind men who used to seek the future, while new peripheric arcades dress up of lazy nakedness, and annual events are under preparation with which we plan to kill the days that would end by themselves anyway, for this has long been written.
and from where I am, trying to look into the future like the blind men, I cannot foresee anything new, other then the exact repetition of everything, as if each day, being new, did not bring other than a déjà vu that tirelessly repeats itself without finding in men a will to change their tone.
some seeds are left forgotten in the ground, drying under the sun, lost from the crops and the barns. soon the fire will finish the dry remains in the fields, lighting the nights, preparing the land for another cycle. for now, everything is frozen, even to the second.

all this may be just a matter of tone. or perhaps it is already autumn.