Gródek

At evening autumn forests drone

With deadly weapons, the golden plains

And the blue lakes, above which somberly

The sun rolls down. The night

Embraces dying warriors, the wild laments

Of their shattered mouths.

But in the willow valley silently

The outspilled blood collects, red clouds

In which an angry god dwells, lunar coolness;

All roads disgorge to black decay.

Beneath the golden boughs of night and stars

The sister's shadow flutters through the silent grove

To greet the spirits of the heroes, bleeding heads.

And softly in the reeds drone the dark flutes of autumn.

O prouder grief! you brazen altars;

Tonight a mighty anguish feeds the hot flame of spirit:

Unborn grandchildren.