Blackcurrant river rolls unknown in strange valleys; the voices of a hundred rooks go with it, the true benevolent voice of angles: with the wide movements of the fir woods when several winds sweep down.
Everything flows with [the] horrible mysteries of ancient landscapes; of strongholds visited, of large estates: it is along these banks that you can hear the dead passions of errant knights: but how the wind is wholesome!
Let the traveler look through these clerestories: he will journey on more bravely.
Forest soldiers whom the Lord sends, dear delightful rooks!
Drive away from here the crafty peasant, clinking glasses with his old stump of an arm.
