The clock that strikes five before the sun—

A dark horror grips lonely people,

In the evening-garden bleak trees swish,

The dead one’s countenance stirs at the window.

Perhaps this hour stands still.

Before dull eyes blue images flutter

To the rhythm of the ships, which rock in the river.

At the wharf a row of nuns blows by.

Pale and blind girls play in the hazel bush,

Like lovers, who embrace in sleep.

Perhaps flies sing around a carcass there,

Perhaps also a child weeps in the mother’s lap.

From hands asters sink blue and red,

The youth’s mouth slips away strange and wise;

And eyelids flutter fear-confused and quiet;

Through fevered blackness a scent of bread blows.

It seems one also hears horrible screaming;

Bones shimmer through decayed walls.

An evil heart laughs loudly in beautiful rooms;

A dog runs past a dreamer.

An empty coffin gets lost in the darkness.

A room wants to light up palely for the murderer,

Meanwhile lanterns are smashed in the night’s storm.

Laurel adorns the noble one’s white temple.