In Alexander Blok's poetry, autumn is not just a season but also a state of mind, a premonition of change and decay. His autumnal motifs are imbued with melancholy, melancholy, a sense of impending hopelessness, but also with quiet beauty and elusive harmony. Blok masterfully conveys the fragility and uncertainty of the autumn landscape, reflecting the inner experiences of his lyrical hero. In his poems, autumn becomes a symbol of a passing era, lost illusions, and unspoken love. This collection will allow you to immerse yourself in the world of autumnal poetry of the great poet.
Autumn Will
In a crimson whirlwind, in the twilight of the alleys, Autumn's freedom breathes in my face. And the wind whispers: "Abandon your dreams, And accept withering like a ring." In the last roses - a smoldering fire, In the fallen leaves - a mournful, quiet ringing. And the heart knows: separation is approaching, And the new day will not bring a bow.
Autumn evening
An autumn evening, quiet and empty, Frozen in the abandoned garden like a dream. Only a distant reflection, ghostly and silent, Reminds me that I am not alone in all this. And in this silence, in anticipation of winter, My soul yearns for the departed spring. But autumn wisely whispers to me: "Understand that in every withering there is new life within you.""
Rowan
Rowan, red as drops of dawn, in the cold haze of autumn fields. It's silent, but it holds so much pain, about lost joy, about faith in people. And it seems that in each berry, a memory of summer warmth is frozen. But the wind rushes, stealthily plucks them, and scatters them across the damp earth.
October
October. The cold breath of glass. A quiet ringing of fallen leaves in the garden. The soul is tired, and hope has sailed away, To a misty land where eternal half-sleep reigns. And it seems the world has frozen in sadness, In anticipation of the coming winter days. But in this silence, in the autumnal distance, There is something eternal that beckons and calls.
Autumn leaves
Autumn leaves, like letters of love, swirl in a waltz, falling prostrate. They whisper the secrets of a departed dawn, and of untold, bitter eyelashes. Their golden dance fades, in the cold gloom of autumn nights. But the memory of summer does not erase them, their gentle whisper, like the voice of rays.
In the autumn park
In an autumn park, in the gloomy silence, I wander alone, like a ghost of bygone days. And I hear the whisper of a fading soul, in fallen leaves, in cold lights. Here, every stone remembers love, faithful vows, passionate dreams. But time is merciless, and ahead – only emptiness and coldness in my eyes.