There's no one in the house. Autumn in rooms;
And the awakening at the edge of the dusking forest.
You always imagine the white countenance of man
Far from the turmoil of time;
Over a dreamer green branches bend with pleasure,
Cross and evening;
With purple arms the resounding one is embraced by his star
Climbing up to unoccupied windows.
Thus the stranger trembles in darkness
As he softly lifts the eyelids over a human shape
Far away; the silver voice of the wind in the hallway.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt