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A broken tree

Will not host a bird

There will be no spring

And there will be no summer

Withered leaves

Will float down a dead river

There will be no summer,

No autumn and no winter

From an empty window

To watch for swifts

There will be no one

In the abandoned house

And only pages

Will be snatched by the wind

From the desk where

Someone used to write poems

There will be no spring

And there will be no summer

Faded poems

Will drift into oblivion

For the end of life

And for the end of the world

There will be no one

To blame a poet.