I go on dreaming of paths
of the evening. Oh, the golden
hills, the green pines,
the dusty oak trees!...

Where will the path lead?
I go on singing, a passenger
along the trail...
- The falling evening is-.

“In its heart I had
a passion’s thorn;
I’ll tear it out one day:
I no longer feel my heart.”

And all the field remains
a moment mute and dark,
thinking. The wind sounds
through the river poplars.

The evening darkens more;
and the path winds
and weakly whitens,
becomes cloudy and disappears.

My song begins to wail:
“Sharp golden thorn,
who will feel you once again
in the heart hammered shut.”