Classic Poem

Autumn is about to leave.
The memory of the lost earth
goes down among the ferns dead decayed
by the meteorite rust in the garden.
Pan plays a skinny naked note,
his pointed lips
turned to the existence of lead.

The consciousness of crystal water
moves like the evil spell of bronze
of village clouds
of the clouded blood
of a rusty man.

The pale traveler
accursed with the sufferings of mercury
narrows an eye
and peeps through a hole
on a torn holly hedge.