In the evening when we walk dark paths,
Our pale figures appear before us.
If we thirst,
We drink the white water of the pond,
The sweetness of our sad childhood.
Deceased, we rest under the elder bushes,
Watch the gray gulls.
Spring's clouds rise over the sinister city
That silences the nobler times of monks.
When I took your slender hands
You quietly opened round eyes.
This is long ago.
Yet when the dark harmony visits my soul,
You appear white in the friend's autumn landscape.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt