At evening jugglers travel through the forest

On quaint wagons, small steeds.

A golden stash seems locked in clouds.

In the dark plain villages are painted.

The red wind billows linen black and cold.

A dog rots, a shrub smokes blood-doused.

The reed is flown through by yellow horror

And placidly a funeral procession pilgrimages to the cemetery.

The old man's hut dwindles nearby in the gray,

In the pond a brilliance of old treasures glistens;

The farmers sit down in the tavern for wine.

A boy glides shyly to a woman.

A monk fades in the darkness soft and dark.

A bleak tree is a sleeper's sexton.