Always the white night leans upon the hill,
Where the poplar towers in silver tones
Are stars and stones.
Asleep, the footbridge arches over the flooding brook,
A deceased countenance follows the boy,
Sickle moon in the rosy ravine
Far from praising shepherds. In old rocks
The toad gazes out of crystalline eyes,
The flowering wind awakens, the bird voice of the deathlike man,
And the footsteps softly turn green in the forest.
This reminds of tree and animal. Slow steps of moss;
And the moon,
That sinks glowing in sad waters.
The other returns again and walks on the green shore,
Swaying in a black gondola through the decayed city.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt