Fall: Rilke, Laforgue, Luther

Lord: it is time. The summer was damn long.

Lay your shadows on the Sun's hour

Let them winds loose on the fields.

Demand the last fruits ripen;

Give them only 2 southern days

Push em down to completion and speed

the last sweets in the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, build no more.

Who's now alone, it'll last awhile

will wake, read, write long letters,

and will in alleys back and forth

wander fitful, if the leaves rush.

*

Here comes the fall of miserable downpours

Drowning the banal summer of lovers

Who stupid and slow go to crossroads

Plotting the progeny of their filthy neuroses.

G'bye lilacs, gold wheat, dusts, red skirts.

In the spleen despairing of painful organs,

Fire pretty much pokes the regrets of happy days,

We keep the incurable sadness of things...

Enjoy! Immortal glory! O season!

Spleen! Glory! Love, moneys.

Some striking bugles

Some heroes, nude and hot

Attacking the fiery Olympos of the Iliad!

O! Why was I born in this sad century,

Why am I here below?

Does the Universe know?

O! If I had a goal!

To love! To love! To enjoy!

Is my life a dream?

I exist! Is this really true?

To glory! To love! To exhuast my unique life!

(The dead

It's good buried ;

It don't leave

Hurried.)

*

Enjoy yourselves with the BOSS, you righted; the Pious should hail him rightly.

Give thanks to the BOSS with harps; praise sing him on psalms and instruments of 10 stings!

Sing him a new song; play pretty on the strings with cheery sounds!

Cuz the BOSS's word is truthful, and what he says, that he'll do for sure.

He loves righteousness and the right; the Earth's chock full of the BOSS's goods.

Heaven is, through the BOSS's word, done up and all his Host through the breath of his mouth.

He holds the water of the seas together like a canteen, and collects the Floods in his cupboard.

All the World fears the BOSS, and before him quivers everybody who dwells on the Earthcrust.

Cause when he speaks, so goes it; if he asks, so it is.

The BOSS makes obliterate the Heathen Wit and straddles the thoughts of the people.

But the conclusion of the BOSS remains for all time, the thoughts of his heart forever and ever.

Well to the folk, of whom the BOSS is the god, to the folk, that he has raised to legacy.

The BOSS looks from Heaven and sees all Men are children.

From his stuck Throne he sees em all, who dwell on the Earth.

He drives the heart of em all, he perks up at all their work.

To a King, his big might don't help; A hero can't save himself from his might craft.

Horsies also don't help; there would ya be betrayed; and their big power wouldn't save nuthin.

Look, the eyes of the BOSS peeks at everyone who's scared of him, who hope out of his goods

that he might save em from Death and preserves their life from Hunger's knot.

Our souls await the BOSS; he's our help and shield.

Cause our Heart enjoys itself in his, and we trust his Holy Name.

Your good, BOSS, be upon us, as we hope from ya.