An autumn in November
Looks like a crying dame.
Afraid to lose her temper
She is in the oldest game.

A modest dress she wears, 
She loves the melodrama, 
She wants to see who cares
And stays in the nirvana.

She cries because of feelings, 
She sadly looks around, 
She hides her every evening, 
The sorrow she has found.

Angry with her reflection, 
She rarely looks at puddles.
But with some intoxication
In crazy dance, she cuddles.

An autumn in November
Looks like a crying dame, 
She’s trying to remember
Her Adam and her shame.

With the soul of a hidden Eve
She feels the coming passion.
Being so much real and naïve
She waits for the compassion. 

Larisa Rzhepishevska