There's a stubble field    On which a black rain falls    There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here    There's a hissing wind    Which haunts deserted huts    How sad, this evening    Past the village pond: the gentle orphan, returning home    Still gathers scanty ears of corn    Golden and round    Her eyes are gazing in the dusk    And her throbbing lap awaits the bridegroom... returning home    Shepherds found the sweet body    Decayed in the bramble bush    A shade... I am remote from sombre hamlets    I drank from the woodland well    The silence of God    I can feel the touch of cold steel    Spiders look for my heart    There is a light that fails in my mouth    On my forehead cold metal forms    Spiders look for my heart    There is a light that fails in my mouth    I drank from the woodland well    The silence of God