The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.

At the Moor

Wanderer in the black wind; quietly the dry reeds whisper
In the stillness of the moor. In the gray sky
A flock of wild birds follows;
Slanting over gloomy waters.

Turmoil. In decayed hut
The spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings.
Crippled birches in the autumn wind.

Evening in deserted tavern. The way home is scented all around
By the soft gloom of grazing herds;
Apparition of the night; toads plunge from brown waters.

The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.

When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.

I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.