Then helplessly my breast grew cold,
But my steps were light.
I pulled the glove for my left hand
Onto my right.
There seemed to be many steps,
But I knew—there were only three!
The whisper of autumn in the maples
Was pleading: “die with me!
I am betrayed by my doleful,
Fickle, evil fate.”
I answered: “Darling, darling!
I too. I will die with you …”
This is the song of the last meeting.
I glanced at the dark house.
Candles were burning only in the bedroom,
With an indifferent-yellow flame.