«I am dead, but you are living. / And the wind, moaning and grieving, / Rocks the house and the forest, / Not one pine after another / But further than the furthest / Horizon all together, / Like boat-hulls and bowsprits / In an unruffled anchorage, / Rocked not from high spirits / ...»
«Under a broom, entwined by ivy, / From rain, we’re hiding for the time. / A cloak protects our shoulders slightly, / My arms, around you, intertwined. No, I was wrong. Among these shrubs, / Not ivy, but green hop has widened. / So, should we spread this cloak, perhaps, / Over the gras...»
«The currant leaf is prickly and coarse. / The windows in the house ring with laughter. / There, women shred it, peppering the cloves, / And marinate it all soon after. The forest heaves, like a mocking scoffer, / All of this clamor onto the slope of the hill, / Where the sun-burned hazel ...»
«Once upon a time, / Somewhere far away, / Riding through the steppe, / A horseman made his way. Through the dust, he saw, / While he sped to fight, / A forest was emerging / Dreary, dark and wide. His soul cried out in worry, / And his heart would race: / Tighten up your saddle, / ...»