The flight of birds is full of harmonies. The green forests

In the evening have gathered to more silent huts;

The crystal meadows of the doe.

A dark shape calms the ripple of the brook, the moist shadows,

And the flowers of summer, which beautifully ring in the wind.

Already the forehead of the pondering man dusks.

And a small lamp shines, the goodness in his heart

And the peace of the meal; because bread and wine are sanctified

By God’s hands, and out of nocturnal eyes

The brother silently gazes at you, so that he rests from thorny wanderings.

O the dwelling in the soulful blueness of the night.

Lovingly the silence in the room also embraces the shadows of the ancestors,

The purple martyrs, lament of a mighty race,

That now dies piously in the lonely grandchild.

Because from black minutes of insanity the suffering/enduring one

Always awakens more radiant at the petrified threshold

And the cool blueness embraces him enormously and the bright end of autumn,

The still house and the telling of the forest,

Measure and law and the moony paths of the departed.