As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.