Memory: gulls, gliding over the dark sky

Of manly gloom.

Silently you dwell in the shadow of the autumnal ash tree,

Sunken into the hill’s righteous dimension;

Always you walk down the green river,

When evening has come,

Sounding love; peacefully the dark deer encounters,

A rosy man; drunk with bluish weather

The forehead stirs the dying leaves

And thinks the serious countenance of the mother;

O, how everything sinks into darkness;

The austere rooms and the old utensils

Of the ancestors.

This shakes the breast of the stranger.

O, you signs and stars.

Large is the guilt of the born. Woe, you golden shivers

Of death

When the soul dreams cooler blooms.

Always the nocturnal bird cries in bare branches

Over the moony one’s steps,

An icy wind sounds by the walls of the village.