Ears of oat grass gently dance in the morning,
Rimed boughs sprawl when covered with dye.
For none of them listens to the fragile mourning,
For none of them bewails the foreign cry.
How willingly they incline beneath Helios’ locks,
How eagerly they shake when the wind howls
While the stashed starling sings and mocks
And the wily fox through the plane prowls.
Alder-leaf birches in their shades do hide
What none of thine shall ever have to see.
His head’s deeply inclined and the pale hands glide
Into the wideness. There beckons Banshee
With trompet tongued chant and fragile praise.
Her pale hands do touch the gory suit of armour,
Her stern countenance inclines to honour his grandeur,
Her tears do fall upon the flayed graze.
“Fie, my soldier, fie! Thy last path thou now must go.
I shall lead thy breath in Ceberus’ territory
Ere Luna does let this day look extinct and hoary
For thou has done thy part with weal and woe.”