A gun goes off in the distance.
And again.
Ah, the Inspector dons his glass outfit,
And he enters through the mistress' window.
Crystal quartz floors,
Deathly pale blood runs
Between fingers.
On the tragic girl's corpse,
A cold-hearted grasshopper cricks.

Morning at the beginning of the Frost-Moon of November,
The Inspector dons his glass outfit,
And makes a crossroad turn,
Where the autumn fountain stood.
Left alone, the inspector's turns an aggrieved one soon.

Look. On the empty marble path out there,
The intruder takes to his heels, gliding away.