Again at the flowering window the church tower's shadow
And golden shape return. The hot forehead burns down in rest and silence.
A fountain falls in the darkness of chestnut branches -
You sense: it is good! in painful exhaustion.
The market is empty of summer fruits and garlands.
Harmoniously the gates attune their black pageantry.
In a garden the tones of gentle play resound
Where friends find each other after the meal.
The soul likes to listen to the white magician's fairy tales.
Roundly, the corn swishes cut by mowers in the afternoon.
In the huts the hard life grows patiently silent;
The stable lamp shines upon the melodious slumber of cows.
Eyelids soon sink inward, drunk with air,
And quietly open to foreign constellations.
Endymion rises from the darkness of ancient oaks
And bends down over mournful waters.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt