No one is in the house. Autumn in rooms;
And the awakening at the edge of the twilight forest.
You always think the white face of mankind
Far from the turmoil of time;
Green branches bend willingly over something dreaming,
Cross and evening;
The sounding one is enfolded by the purple arms of his star
Which climbs to uninhabited windows.
So the stranger trembles in the dark,
For he softly raises his eyelids over something human,
Which is far away; the silver voice of the wind in the hallway.