It’s dawning...
It’s so quiet, so gentle, so soft in the field.
Distant poplars, like extinguished candles
In balls of incense, wrapped in the mists,
Play a melancholy scale in the soul.
Little by little the day becomes...
It’s so quiet, so gentle, so soft in the field.
It’s dawning...
Everything is still asleep: the sky as well as the faint stars,
Just a bird somewhere sleepily and lazily is spawning a sound,
And a burnt out stump, like a priest over a grave,
Wails silently – “Have mercy, immortal one!”
With every second it’s brighter.
Everything is still asleep: the sky as well as the faint stars,
It’s dawning...
The sunrise wounds the night with rays, with swords.
And golden clouds rush into battle.
Silent mists quiver above the fields.
And with them I stop for a morning prayer:
Have mercy on us!
Why are You wounding our heart with swords?
1914-1916