Red spheres often emerge from branches,

Snowed under softly and black by a long snowfall.

The priest escorts the dead person.

The nights are fulfilled by celebrations of masks.

Then tousled crows glide over the village;

In books fairy tales are written miraculously.

At the window an old man's hair flutters.

Demons go through the ill soul.

The well freezes in the courtyard. Decayed stairs fall

In the darkness and a wind blows

Through old shafts which are buried.

The palate tastes the frost's strong spices.