After the summer it is an old men's land,
here yawns the heath in its vicious gall;
the brown of oaks smells of dogs,
the village glows in its October bells.
The honey drips wearily in earthenware pots
at which hands unite for consolation;
and lonely lasts the millstones' revolution,
the castle stands in its moat and rots.
Deathbeds gleam with the gold of the fathers,
it's evening and the sons see in wonder:
their birthplace sinks in the mist, yonder,
and youth and love and it all is farther.
Translated by Marian de Vooght
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem