leaf

in the garden, in the nighttime (with Old English, Dutch, and Germanic influence)








in the garden, in the nighttime

(formerly 'slipping away in the garden in the nighttime', with Old English, Dutch, and Germanic influence)




the leaves play their roles

they change colors, giving shade,

raindrops—welled up tears








Author's Notes/Comments: 

This haiku was primarily composed as a personal note to my most recent subjective study material (micro-phenomenology).  I thought, first & foremost, why or how come it had that particular significance in me (at least for me). As far as that realization was thought to be consisting revelatory moments,  a denouement if you will, these have aided me (in my self-directed learning the importance/relevance of intersubjectivity, interrelatedness, & multiperspectivity as it relate to/in relation to philosophy, phenomenology, —mostly in semiotics/semantics/linguistics—of which are already specified in the past Author's Notes/Comments).

 

In addition, etymological definitions (with relative value to myself) basically were included below.  These are the linguistic influences of another language before being used in these particular ways.  Please note that this is just to help educate myself on these subjects & so, thought to be, help expand my learning objectives, which was why they've been given emphases):

 

 

 

Leaves pl./leaf sing. :

 

 

1.  Old English lēaf, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch loof and German Laub

 

Leave (another sense, as in the verb) :

 

 

2. Old English lēaf 'permission'; related to LIEF and LOVE

 

3.  Old English.. (this last one entry was not included; it had seemed to have a far different sense & meaning, so it had not been thought to be iterated; and apart from this reason, however, I could not find a special character from my mobile device to input "læfan" like how it appears from the built-in definition & its meaning to especially/specially denote that here correctly)

 

 

 

La forêt

Au dessus d'un cimetière aux tombes grises

Tombent les feuilles aux couleurs mortes 

Tandis que dégringolent au gré de la brise 

Des lambeaux de vie et d'espoir que l'on avorté

 

Le vent chante se sinistre mélodie, 

Soufflant les flammes de bougies heureuses 

Pendant que pleurent doucement à l'agonie

Les branches frêles de la sylve silencieuse 

 

Ne craint follement les feuilles qui tombent

Celui dont les pensées

Résonnent la nuit durant dans les catacombes 

 

Les plaintes de la forêt qui se meurt,

Seuls l'entendent ceux qui de la vie ont peur 

Et qui cherchent le sens à toute heure 

 

Du ballet de la chute des ombres brunes 

De la pâle froideur de la lune 

 

Alors sous le lierre et les ronces

On peut entendre un murmure, une sinistre réponse;

 

"Les morts ne parlent pas"

 

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