Unfinished autumn

I'll help the roving eye,remember:

Its one colour
After its soul is scattered-
Distilled into heavy orange
Deep lake-blue
Then , uninterpreted,
Still, darkness.

Until I open, helped by dull landmarks,
Like a street - Gravel, mud, concrete,
Sometimes bougainvillea on the sides
Or plain endlessness without a chance for a detour.

The trapped-song of that bright green tree
Bustling in the crowd of its own leaves
While others melt into elegant gold flakes
Obliging, without the music.

That it was I, a terrible conflict called 'us'
Who lived.
And then stopped .............
......................................
[Awkwardly]