Phantoms.
Through the canvas of rain, I see
blurry spots, like a phantom man.
Night is near and I perceive
That the Samhain's eve has begun.
By the flame of a candle, glow
breaks a wide crack inside the murk.
If I fail through the edge below,
Admit it as the spatial quirk.
On the back, I'm not real, but lone
and mysterious guest, you live.
Or is it just a sketch, that’s drawn
On the glass in the Samhain's eve?
You dissolve in the autumn rain,
Maybe it’s prescribed by the plot.
And I look through the windowpane
But I see only blurry spots.
тут