In the evening, when we go on dark paths,

Our pale figures appear before us.

If we thirst,

We drink the white water of the pond,

The sweetness of our sad childhood.

Deceased, we rest under the elder bushes,

Watch the gray gulls.

Spring’s clouds rise over the sinister city,

That silences the monks’ nobler times.

When I took your narrow hands

You quietly opened round eyes.

This is long ago.

Yet when the dark harmony visits my soul,

You appear white in the friend’s autumnal landscape.