In The Night Fields They Sing

In the night fields they sing. Mist drifts above the fires.
The song is joyous sorrow. Small streamlets are the voices.
And from a silvered clearing, from bushes flow, transpire,
Ballads like small bells, ballads that chime rejoicing.

In the night fields they sing. The songs tell of wild woods
And the wild birds crying over zig-zag marshes,
Sensitive summer whisper of wheat-ears rope, and good
The fishing boat, the maple tinged with golden patches.

In the night fields they sing. There echo through the night,
Up to the stars, the voices like fans, pearly-crying,
Sing louder. O you song, sink not to voiceless quiet!
Maybe, like flint, the eyes shall set a spark-shower flying.

In the night fields they sing. Thither you singing send,
Where in the heart and breast it burns, compressing tightly;
You will find in it may fire words, and then…
In flames of forest-fire a song will be incited.

Z. Biadula 1910