In the evening the autumn forests resound
With deadly weapons, the golden plains
And blue lakes, over which the sun
Rolls more somberly; night embraces
Dying warriors, the wild lament
Of their broken mouths.
Yet silently in the meadow
A red cloud, where an angry god dwells,
Gathers spilled blood, moony coolness;
All roads end in black decay.
Under golden branches of night and stars
The sister's shadow sways through the silent grove
To greet the ghosts of heroes, the bleeding heads;
And softly the dark autumn flutes resound in the reeds.
O prouder grief! you brazen altars,
Today an enormous pain nourishes the hot flame of the spirit,
The unborn grandchildren.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt