1.) Seldom does a traveller stray here
to this mountain village at the snow's edge,
and crumbling, empty houses
are softly mirrored in the dull grey waters of the lake.
Colour and splendour have faded long ago.
Weeds and grass grow in the streets.
The fog has brought leaden silence
to the village that Heaven forgot.
No house has escaped the course of time,
though time itself passes slowly.
I am the last one who still lives here,
I and the voices in the wind.
2.) Once there was life and laughter at the lake,
until fog rose from the depths.
It brought the voices to the hamlet in the snow,
the alluring, soft singing.
I know not the reason, but now I see clearly
how the village slipped away from the gods.
The fog comes and goes once a year
and it takes along one of us.
Only sometimes, when the wind comes from the water
and the evening is mild and calm
one may sense whither our soul is blown:
it sings with the voices in the wind.
3.) Year after year has melted like snow
since the fog received the first one.
I am the last of the people of the lake
who hasn't joined the voices yet.
I await the end of waiting
here in my hut of stone.
My friends' voices are always with me
and yet I am ever alone.
Soon I, too, will follow, mourned by no-one,
when the fog begins to rise
then I will sing, united forever at last,
with my voices in the wind.
4.) Should you, traveller, one day stray here
to this mountain village at the snow's edge,
a deserted world will be mirrored
in the dull grey waters of the lake.
Crumbling and empty, the houses are waiting
They are ready for guests,
for more singers in the sea of mist
in the village at the brink of time.
And should you wonder, in that place of stone,
where we have gone
then hearken to the evening's silence:
We are the voices in the wind.
Eva 1995