A shy morning, with fog

A pale morning, with fog,
the grass is washed with dew.
I leave the house early,
in a white shirt, barefoot.

Summer seems to have fallen asleep,
a poem, by chance, a breeze.
It smells of a flowering linden,
its time has come for it to bloom.

The crickets and cicadas have fallen silent,
the birds are not singing yet.
The day has only just begun,
the minutes are running slowly.

The morning greets with coolness,
a dampness blows, slightly.
The soul stubbornly seeks the clarity of common sense.

And somewhere else they are still killing,
each other, mercilessly branding,
they release their weapons,
considering that it is not in vain.