At evening the autumn woodlands
With deadly weapons.
Over the golden
And lakes of blue, the
More darkly rolls.
The night
Warriors dying and the wild
Of their fragmented mouths.
Yet silently there gather in the willow
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god,
Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
All roads lead to black decay.
Under golden branching of the night and starsA sister's shadow sways through the still
To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads.
And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes resound.
O prouder mourning! - You brazen altars,
The spirit's hot flame is fed now by a tremendous pain:
The grandsons, unborn.
