The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?

Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot survivor of that time, that place.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.