Promising grief,
the morning works its way
from distant places.
For it holds
in its lap
the seed of a great evil.
Alien and strange,
dawn already reaches
the thin rim of the sky.
An apprehension
is ominously spread
by the morning.
Mountains wrap themselves in mist,
soon covered in grieving crepe.
From the valleys rises a lament
resounding forth into the night.
A heavy sigh goes through
wide expanses of air, and a waft of wind
blows from distant mountains
as if from graves.
Leaves wave as if in farewell
in the loneliness of the forests,
and their mourning autumn dress
shimmers as if drenched in blood.
Every eye that still awaits
a proud living light
will soon get clouded by the grief
tears wrench out of it.
No gentle gift of hope strengthens
the noble spirit standing watch,
ingloriously starving in awe
in the night of the Occident.