The dog sleeps behind checkered curtains.
    It sleeps its hundredth year already.
        And the precious heart sleeps.
A dream no longer wakes it, nor omens, not
    the forever-departed dead.
Perhaps I alone, only my memory.
    But we are forgotten now, snow's meciful bell
        has struck.
Winter rides above everything - its strange
    bent-down woods, the empires of winter.
Only the snow laments and tolls, the storm cries:
    for the precious heart
        the concerto whole.