In the farmyard the white moon of autumn shines.

Fantastic shadows fall from the eaves of the roof.

A silence is living in the empty windows;

Now from it the rats emerge softly

And skitter here and there, squeaking,

And a grey malodorous mist from the latrine

Follows behind them, sniffling:

Through the mist the ghostly moonlight quivers.

And the rats squeak eagerly as if insane

And go out to fill houses and barns

Which are filled full of fruit and grain.

Icy winds quarrel in the darkness