The sun paints courtyard and walls with autumn,
The fruit stacked in heaps all around,
Before them poor children cower.
A gust thins out old linden-trees.
Through the gate a golden shower rains
And the women blessed with child
Tiredly rest on rotten benches.
Drunkards swing glasses and jugs.
A hoodlum lets his fiddle sound
And smocks swell lustfully in the dance.
Roughly brown bodies embrace.
From windows empty eyes gaze.
Stench rises from the fountain’s mirror.
And black, decayed, departed
The hills of vines dusk all around.
A migration of birds glides swiftly southwards.