Crickets at twilight, frog calls from the pond…
My ears are so used to the sounds of summer
the silence is thundering,
It falls like a hard rain on my parade.
Though maples wear flame,
there’s frost on the ground,
Time creates its own conflagration,
Dali’s clocks no longer seem so surreal.
Summer has gone, a leaf flickers and falls;
its whisper already a memory
for those days that are wrapped
in the silence of snow.
In the end, the clock always wins out.
No matter how harsh the winter,
eventually the ice will melt
and time will continue.