The wind is softly crying and weeping
Like small boys frightened from having gotten lost,
The moon is a slice of faded golden seam,
And having crossed already the mountain top
The pale dawn is quietly approaching.
I am wading in thin and splashy mud,
Afraid to look towards the far autumn plot,
My faded lips quietly start to cry
And I taste the sweet flavour of crushed, thick blood;
Flattering black flags enfold the tree arms.
Suddenly, I see feverish and sweet
Pictures with fading eyes, delayed desire,
I hear gentle and soft minuets while
On quiet, scuttling, silk covered feet
Life is floating away amongst sad trees…
1908
Translated by Maria Bencsath
