My head is no longer adorned with a wreath woven from the sun's golden leaves
.
From every tree and every bush
creeps men in black cloaks.
Small shadows arise in abundance< br/>immediately the dull wall of the sky.
Who put down a feather
in my clover hay?
Who swept the gold dust
from the reddening cloud bank,
swept the patterns on the grass
from light green fabric. In the dark, you
glistened in the window pane.
Go home! Because there are things that a wise man does not touch.