So ghostly are these late days
Just like the look of sick people, sent here
In the light. However, the night shades the muted lament
Of their eyes, toward which they already turn.
They probably smile and recall their celebrations,
How one is moved after songs, half forgotten,
And searches words for a sad gesture,
Which already grows pale in silence unmeasured.
So the sun still plays around ill flowers
And lets them shiver in the thin, clear airs
With a death-cool delight.
The red forests whisper and darken,
And more death-nightly the woodpeckers’ hammering echoes
Just like a reverberation from airless crypts.