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There were often times
when we had no wine to drink,
However, this morning
we fill the empty beakers.
Over the new spring wine
midges hover—
When will we ever
taste its like again?
Tables with funeral meats
stand piled high before us,
Old friends and relatives
come and weep beside us.
We try to speak
but cannot utter words,
We try to see
but our eyes are dim.
Once he used to sleep
within the lofty hall,
Now he will spend the night
out on the lonely moor.
Leaving the city gate
we accompanied him thither
But we were back again
before midnight had come. (en) |
