Poetry: Gentle Hand of Night

When a terrible night

with fiery wings crosses the river,

calm waters begin to sing

with a voice of endless pain and shudder.

When the midnight wind

shakes off the heavy darkness,

from the dry reeds,

the song of death I hear.

A field full of clover,

dead leaves falling on the road –

like a gray cloud from the darkness,

my soul appears at ease.

I come to your window and lightly knock,

stroking you with my tender,

hand of death,

gently as a mother.