House. Hundred-year oak. A
well-spring flowing

And storks winging from a
distant strand.

‘Human, grant that we may
make our home here,

Very sweet to us appears this
land.'

Wide the beaks of stork-chicks
gape, appealing,

In the low-land fields the
years creep by,

oyfully above the house are
wheeling

Two white crosses, like a
guard on high.

...Summer rich in sap is
growing stronger.

Like molten quicksilver the
sun's light.

Two sick children in the nest
still linger,

That will never wing away in
flight.

"I gave you no warning that
the pasture

Is all poisoned to eternity,

Like me, your babes will die
of this disaster!'

And the Human cackles evilly.

On the grizzled she-stork as
last portent

Of dangers an eternal dream
descends:

There a well-spring bubbles
with dead water,

And beside the house of Wereworlf stands.

Translated by V. Rich