Black snow that dribbles from the roofs;
A blood-red finger dips into your brow,
Blue nerves sink into the barren chamber,
That are the lifeless mirrors of lovers.
The head breaks into weighty pieces and ponders
On shadows mirrored in blue nerves,
The frozen smile of a dead whore.
In sweet carnations weeps the evening breeze.
Bluish shadows. O you dark eyes
Which gaze long upon me gliding by.
Sounds of a guitar gently accompany autumn
In the garden, dissolved in brown fluids.
Death’s grave darkling hour is prepared
By nymphen hands; decaying lips
Suck at redbreasts and into black fluids
The sun-youth’s damp locks glide.
At evening the autumn woods resound
With deadly weapons, the golden plains
And blue lakes, the sun overhead
Rolls more darkly on; night embraces
Dying warriors, the wild lament
Of their broken mouths.
Yet silently red clouds, in which a wrathful god lives,
Gather on willow-ground
The blood that was shed, moon-coolness;
All roads flow into black decay.
Under the golden boughs of night and stars
Sister’s shadow sways through the silent grove,
To greet the spirits of the heroes, the bleeding heads;
And softly the dark pipes of autumn sound in the reeds.
O prouder sorrow! You brazen altars,
The spirit’s ardent flame to day is fed by mighty grief,
The unborn generations.