When evening has come and all is finally calm
In warm Nature,
There stirs beneath the trees and beneath the divine sky
The keenest torment.

On the silver gravel, in the tranquil woods,
There is a flourish of violins:
It is a stream of cries, of sobs, of kisses,
Without restraint and without cease.

It seems as if the violin bow is twisting
Over the gleaming strings,
For these are true calls of pleasure and of death
-- And of mercy.

And the burning bow reels in lassitude,
Groaning, suffering and caressing -
A voluptuous dagger that pierces the heart
With exhausting euphoria.

Bows, be cursed for your burning chords,
For your explosive soul:
Red-hot brands that in the shadows tear from our bodies
Scraps of living flesh!