Memory: gulls, gliding over the dark sky
Of manly sorrow.
Silently you dwell in the shadow of the autumn ash tree,
Sunken into the hill's righteous dimension;
Always you walk down the green river
When evening has come
Sounding love; peacefully the dark deer encounters
A rosy man; drunk with bluish weather
The forehead stirs the dying leaves
And thinks the earnest countenance of the mother;
O, how everything sinks into darkness;
The austere rooms and the utensils
Of the ancestors.
This shakes the breast of the stranger.
O, you signs and stars.
Great is the guilt of the born. Woe, you golden shivers
When the soul dreams cooler blooms.
Always the nocturnal bird cries in bare branches
Over the lunar one's steps,
An icy wind sounds by the village walls.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt