Autumn with the golden branches...
Maple, lime-trees, taking pleasure,
stick their twigs inside, like clutches,
searching for someone they treasure.
They are gone, our dear losses,
in the homely yard the crescent
marks with beams of light on crosses
that we'll join them in the basement.
Going trough the troubles wholly
we shall go like this to welkin.
All the winding roads are only
for the living beings welcome.
Come, sit down here, my dearest,
let me look into your face.
I will listen to the tempest
under your submissive gaze.