Across the landscape rendered grey
The mists by chills lament
Funereal in that tomb of beauty
A Voice sins sharp. Thin and taut
Satyrs and fauns dance turning round
And round and round in the sunset and
The dusk and in the night without sound.
The Souls writhe in pain in the landscape sad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem