Classic Poem

The sun's hanging low in the sky,
All the woodland birds quieten now.
They gather in flocks and fly
From the woods, now more spacious, somehow.

Brother stork, my visitor rare,
Both together we weathered our woes.
Now, my brother, alone you prepare
To travel – how far, God knows!

There gardens in autumn don't fade,
Skies shine in the sun's golden fire,
And here – only empty fields
And the falsehood of empty desire.

Mottled Autumn through stubble and straw
Lays its pathways all covered with mud.
I dream of your country, dear stork,
While the autumn wind chills my blood.

Ah, get ready, get ready, dear thing,
To catch up with the setting sun's beams!
The sun is for those who have wings,
While the lot of the wingless are dreams.