Grodek

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.