Blind lament in the wind, moony winter days,

Childhood, quietly the steps fade near black hedge,

Long evening bells.

Quietly the white night approaches,

Transforms pain and worriment into purple dreams

Of stony living,

So that the thorny sting will never leave the rotting body.

Deep in slumber, the anxious soul heaves a sigh,

Deep the wind in broken trees,

And the lamenting figure

Of the mother staggers through the lonely forest

Of this speechless grief; nights

Filled with tears, fiery angels.

Silverly a childlike skeleton smashes on bleak wall.