O scythe of waning moon
that shines on the water of the desert
O scythe of silver, what a harvest of dreams
ripples in your mild and diffuse light down here!
Short longings of the leaf,
sighing of the flowers in the wood,
emanate to the sea: not song nor cry
not sound through the vast silence goes.
Oppressed in love, in pleasure,
the people of the world of the living are asleep...
O waning scythe, what a harvest of dreams
ripples in your mild and diffuse light down here!