When there is no one, in the nothing,
for the mid winter has begun,
then, will you beckon,
wreath laden,
ardent as morning sun and so light lovely,
arms wide, chest opened,
leaking only a such sun brightness, so fine, so golden –
and of the first, the foremost, are you,
wading much tender sheaves, beaded soley, with morn-dew,
quite unlonely, like cautious sweat, stained, only,
with such fresh meadow, herb-like blood, wet,
cool as a striven, striving stream, yet,
your kind brow, gleams, thought wrinkled,
a frown, that I shall never forget –
where, here, still awaiting, you are not afraid,
only awaiting, what will be –
when there is no one, in the nothing,
for the mid winter has started,
sombre, cold gazing, all bleak and so day short,
where half-hidden amid your barley words,
abides a sacred, silent remembering,
where time is still golden leaved, fine worldly, only,
all misty and so light wondrous,
where still, if just momentarily,
between the gilding of leaves and their wafting away,
we find your unconquerable sacrifice,
among fragmented scarlet leaves,
and a freedomhood of blessings,
for within that momentary, silent time of never again,
when there is no one, in the nothing,
for the mid winter has begun,
then – I shall return,
to lay wreaths,
ardent as mourning, in your arms.