The cold voice of the tempest, 

It makes me run away 

There's something bittersweet 

And true in the air this day 

At long last I can whirl round 

With fallen xanthic leaves 

Unite with birds of passage and fly above the trees 



(The) stories that must flash out 

With a pulsing aorta of (the) sky 

And then must turn to ashes 

I kiss them all goodbye 

The rotten lips taste divine, 


Can't explain to you why 

The last pain pierces my heart 

I laugh and deeply cry 



And stunning is the black-eyed thicket 

And the swamped grass, 

Not a human, not a god yet, 

Come, veni foras! 

And stunning is the black-eyed thicket 

And the swamped grass, 

Not a human, not a god, 

Mother, veni foras...