Guzal Ruzieva writes

HALF OF THE AUTUMN 
  
Now in the half of autumn – the world is dried, 
The other half – the leaf became yellowish. 
Then half of the autumn – the hottest day of summer, 
The other half – the tremor which burnt a fire, 
Now in the half of autumn – the memory that parting painted yellow, 
The other half – the sense which was located in an avenue, 
Then half of the autumn – a yearning, also a concern, 
The other half – the footstep that didn’t reach to your door, 
A beautiful season – now not autumn, the half is cold, 
The other half – a winter which got to the souls. 
Now half of the autumn – the house couldn’t heat even the body, 
The other half – absolutely waiting for something,  
Now half of the autumn – the sun that lost its shine, 
The other half – the moon divagated at night. 
Then half of the autumn – the window that hasn’t knocked, 
The other half – tea became cold in a cup. 
Now half of the autumn – the picture reminded of love, 
The other half is vague and the other half is unseen. 
When did our beloved season become such a sorrow? 
My dear, why is autumn guilty if we are unhappy?

--tr. Asror Allayarov
 Autumn -- Frederic Edwin Church