Nearby is my mountain, beloved mountain.
Surrounded by old things
moss-grown ever since the days of creation,
when the night comes with seven black suns
which bring the kind darkness,
I should be pleased.

There is enough silence in the circle
that holds the staves of the vault together.
But I have memories about the time when I was not,
as from a distant childhood,
and I feel so sorry I didn't dwell
in the country without a name.
And again I say to myself:
the stars make no clamour into the blue.
Yes, I should be pleased.