Brown chestnuts. Quietly the old people glide

In the more silent evening; beautiful leaves wither tenderly.

At the cemetery the blackbird jokes with the dead cousin,

The blond teacher gives escort to Angela.

Death’s pure images look from church windows;

However, a bloody ground appears very mournful and somberly.

The gate remained locked today; the sexton has the key.

In the garden the sister speaks friendly with ghosts.

In old cellars the wine ripens into gold, clarity.

Apples smell sweet. Joy shines not too far away.

Children gladly hear fairy tales through the long evening;

Also gold, truth often come out in soft insanity.

The blue flows full of mignonettes; candlelight in rooms.

For the modest their place is well prepared.

Down the edge of the forest a lonely destiny glides;

The night appears, the angel of rest, on the threshold.