The cold voice of the tempest,
It makes me run away
There's something bittersweet
And true in the air this day
At long last I can whirl round
With fallen xanthic leaves
Unite with birds of passage and fly above the trees

(The) stories that must flash out
With a pulsing aorta of (the) sky
And then must turn to ashes
I kiss them all goodbye
The rotten lips taste divine,
Can't explain to you why
The last pain pierces my heart
I laugh and deeply cry

And stunning is the black-eyed thicket
And the swamped grass,
Not a human, not a god yet,
Come, veni foras!
And stunning is the black-eyed thicket
And the swamped grass,
Not a human, not a god,
Mother, veni foras...