In The East

Like the wild organs of the winter

Is the people gloomy rage,

The purple billow of

Of stars leaf-stripped.

With broken brows, silvery

The night beckons to dying soldiers.

In the autumnal ash-tree’s

The ghosts of the killed are sighing.

Thorny wilderness surrounds the town.

From steps that bleeds the

Drives off dumbfounded women.

Wild wolves have burst through the gate.