the wind bends the pines,
till the wet ground.
are buried in it
black branches are singing as arrows above my head,
birds that are flying far away, are calling us for the
long journey with them
how many roads are crossed on my grey way
so don’t search for me, don’t wait for me and don’t
call me anymore.
the woods will cast a shadow on the ground,
of a naked black thicket
the new day isn’t coming
for the fallen in battle.
the winds rolled the sun down from the hill,
enfolded by snow
silvery canopies of grove and woods,
are standing between us.
wings of a slowly howling snowstorm,
will flap above my head
like snowflakes that protect a path,
calling me with voices.
and don’t call for me,
by whispering under our memories,
and don’t search for me,
with a scream in heart and sorrow
and don’t tarry for me,
with the faithfulness of birds,
names of the warriors,
are now becoming a tale.