Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

tell me, whose fault was it that we tried to escape the autumn scent,
naively believing in the linden blossoms collected that summer?
you taught me to follow your inattentive gaze into shady alleys.
i created random phrases to escape the attention of foreign ears.
even the volume of ovid, opened only on odd days of the week,
was still filled with sycamore leaves falling in this one park.
so tell me, how did we miss winter coming?