like burning wounds in the fall,

so pitifully shivering and burning.

Do they long for happiness or death?

Those flowers will not fall off quietly,

no new life will come to them,

No, frost will strike before the sun rises

and kill the living impulse.

And the red roses will turn black,

as if the blood were baked in the wounds...

Oh, let the suns get drunk,

before the frost gathers them!