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.