My old lonely house filled with the smell
 of burnt fallen leaves. Sound of passing birds' wings...
 Trembling, oldness, twilight...
 Candle is fading, books, old photos are in disorder on the floor.
 Wind is throwing naked black branches into the window.
 I'll not fall asleep this night.
 At the dawn behind a pale veil,
 I'll see like in black white mute cinema
 Those who are long ago passed.