The fountain sings, the clouds stand
In clear blueness, white, delicate;
Silent people wander thoughtfully
Down there in the evening-blue garden.
The ancestors' marble has turned grey.
A line of birds streaks into the distance
A faun with dead eyes gazes
On shadows that glide into darkness.
Leaves fall red from the old tree,
Rotate inside through the open window.
The room glows in dark fires,
In it shadows, like ghosts.
Opal smoke weaves over the grass,
A cloud of wilted, bleached scents,
In the fountain the sickle moon shines
Like a green glass in freezing air.