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.
