Toward Evening My Heart
At evening one hears the cry of bats.
Two black horses leap on the meadow.
The red maple rustles.
To the wanderer the small inn appears along the way.
Glorious taste the young wine and nuts.
Glorious: to stagger drunk in the dusking forest.
Through black branches grievous bells sound.
Dew drips on the face.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt