Someone is talking of his mother.  
He apparently is German.  
Loudly and slowly he places his words:  
Like a girl who is assembling a flower bouquet, 
and who thoughtfully tries out 
flower after flower and does not yet know 
what it will become - that is how he structures his words. 
For fun? For ill?  All listen.  
Even the spitting ceases. 
After all they are all gentlemen, who know what is proper.  
And those in this band who do not know German, 
suddenly understand it, feel individual words: 
"Evenings" ... "Was little..." 

[In this they are all close to each other, these gentlemen, 
who come from France and from Burgundy, 
from the Netherlands, from the valleys of Kaernten, 
from the bohemian castles and from Emperor Leopold.  
Because what one of them is recounting, 
they have also experienced, and just like that.
As if there were only one mother... 

So one is riding into the evening, 
any evening. One is silent again, 
but the bright words are now being carried along.  
Then the Marquis lifts off his helmet.
His dark hair is soft, 
and as he bends down his head, 
his hair spreads on his neck in a feminine fashion.  
Now von Langenau recognizes it as well: 
Far away something is towering into the gloaming, 
something slender, dark. 
A lonely column, half fallen apart. 
And after they have long passed it, later, 
it comes to him, that that had been a Madonna.]

In this they are all close to each other, these gentlemen, 
who come from France and from Burgundy, 
from the Netherlands, from the valleys of Kaernten, 
from the Bohemian castles and from Emperor Leopold.  
Because what one of them is recounting, 
they have also experienced, and just like that.
As if there were only one mother . . .