English Rendering
Old road overgrown with thorn,
Winding through the ruin's scorn.
Amethyst blooms cloak the shore,
Marsh gleams colder than before.
Harvest done, the woodcutters pass,
Sunset stains their loads with brass.
Wind-combed willows stand threadbare,
Frost-jeweled pears perfume the air.
Wanderers pause at crossroads' sign,
Birds rush to roost in frantic line.
The old farmer grins his creed:
"Mind dark paths—and take my heed:
This year's luck gave modest cheer,
Never scorn coarse porridge here."
