At nightfall echoes of murderous weapons
resound in fall’s forests, on lowlands all-golden  
and azure lakes, above which the low sun 
more somberly rolls; the night enfolds
dying warriors, the poignant moaning
of their shatterèd mouths.
Yet quietly in the willow meads 
- blood red the clouds, wherein an ireful god dwells -
the spilled, shed blood gathers, moonlit coolness;
all the roads ending in rot and in black decay.
Under golden branches of night and of stars
the sister’s shadow staggers through the deathly still grove
to nod to the ghosts of the heroes, their heads sore and wounded;
and softly down in the reeds the dark flutes of Autumn resound.
O prouder condolement! you cast-iron altars,
the spirit’s hot flame is nourished today by an enormous pain,
the grandsons, still unborn.