A SPRIG WITHOUT LEAVES

          It is a little sprig without leaves, which is heaped on dark-red grains. A little sprig without leaves, but it is alive. Its red eyes are giving an impish wink to me in the half-dark room. It sways lonesome in the white vase, but it is cheerful all the same. It is a memory from a marvelous autumnal day.

          It was on the top of the highest hill. In my legs reclined the town and over the sprig was only the sun. The impish eyes of the bush frolicsome looked me and as it told me: “ Look me, I’m nearest to the sun, which gave me a life, and nearest to the stars, which kissed my fruits. Even you can’t touch my top!” The disobedient wind poked in his branches, but the bush didn’t whisper, because the autumn robed it of its words. The proud sprig bended and touched me. I reached out and it stayed with me - to remind me that the autumn came here. Now the ray of electric lamp kisses it instead of the stars and it isn’t so near to the sun. My room lives a new life with it. The cheerful sprig brought with itself the sun, which is hidden too often from the smoked clouds, and the stars, which are darken for the sake of artificial brilliance of the lamps a long ago. Now it is autumn in my room. The winter will come, but it won’t enter here, it will blows on my window only and will gives a silver flowers on it. In the spring I will go to the same bush and will take a little sprig of it again. Then the bush will speaks anew with his green leaves and the sun, the stars and the wind will be guests in my room again.

          The red eyes are looking me meaning – it is a time the room to be lost in the darkness of the starless town night. I’m reaching out and the electric light is going out. Good night, my autumn.