Nobody in the house. Autumn in the rooms:

Moonlight sonata

And the awakening of the margins of the dusky woods.

You always think that the white faces of men

Are farther away from the tumult of time:

Bending down over a slope in dreams of such happy green branches

Cross and evening:

Encircled by sounds with the purple branches of stars,

Climbing up the uninhabited windows.

Therefore strangers tremble in the dark,

There the soft eyelids of people lift themselves up,

There in the distance the silver voice of the winds in the hallway.