—The forest, which widens deceased —

And shadows are around it, like hedges.

The deer comes trembling out of hidden places,

While a brook glides very quiet

And follows ferns and ancient stones

And gleams silverly from tangled foliage.

Soon one hears it in black gorges—

Perhaps, also that stars already shine.

The dark plain seems endless,

Scattered villages, marsh and pond,

And something feigns a fire to you.

A cold gleam shoos over roads.

In the sky one anticipates movement,

An army of wild birds migrates

Towards those lands, beautiful, distant.

The stirring of reeds rises and sinks.