| Mother carried the child in the white moon
|
| In the shade of the walnut tree, ancient elder
|
| Drunk with the juice of the poppy, the lament of the thrush
|
| And be silent
|
| A bearded face bowed down in pity over them
|
| Quietly in the dark of the window; |
| and old household appliances
|
| the fathers
|
| was in decay; |
| Love and autumn reverie
|
| So dark the day of the year, sad childhood
|
| Since the boy softly to cool waters, silver fish peace and countenance;
|
| descended
|
| Because he threw himself stone in front of frenzied black horses
|
| In gray night his star came over him
|
| Or when he's holding his mother's freezing hand
|
| St Peter's autumnal cemetery in the evening
|
| A tender corpse lay still in the darkness of the chamber
|
| And that one lifted the cold eyelids over him
|
| But he was a little bird in the bare branches
|
| The bell long in the evening November
|
| The father's silence as he descended the twilight spiral staircase in his sleep
|
| peace of the soul. |
| Lonely winter evening
|
| The dark figures of the shepherds at the old pond
|
| babes in the hut of straw; |
| oh how quiet
|
| His face sank in black fever
|
| Holy Night
|
| Or when he's at his father's hard hand
|
| Silently ascended the dark Calvary
|
| And in twilight rock niches
|
| The blue figure of man passed through his legend
|
| Blood ran purple from the wound under the heart
|
| O how quietly the cross arose in the dark soul
|
| Love; |
| because in black corners the snow melted
|
| A blue breeze caught cheerfully in the old elderberry
|
| In the shade of the walnut tree
|
| And his rosy angel quietly appeared to the boy
|
| Joy; |
| because an evening sonata sounded in cool rooms
|
| In the brown wooden frame
|
| A blue butterfly crept out of the silver chrysalis
|
| O the nearness of death. |
| In a stone wall
|
| A yellow head bowed, the child silent
|
| Because in that March the moon fell
|
| Rosy daffodil in the burial vault of the night
|
| And the silver voices of the stars
|
| That in shudders a dark madness from the forehead
|
| The sleeper's sank
|
| O how quiet a passage down the blue river
|
| Pondering the forgotten, there in the green branches
|
| The thrush called a stranger to his downfall
|
| Or when he is on the old man's bony hand
|
| walked in front of the crumbling wall of the city in the evening
|
| And that one in a black cloak carried a pink child
|
| In the shade of the walnut the spirit of evil appeared
|
| Groping over the green steps of summer. |
| Oh how quiet
|
| The garden decayed in the brown stillness of autumn
|
| Scent and melancholy of old elder
|
| Because in Sebastian's shadow the silver voice of the angel died |