High... On its hill the white house stands
like a mosque of silence on the cliff of demise
an eastern outline against the light of the sky
with the glare of sunset on the autumn night
behind deaths angel, the sunset-glow darken, shadow thickens under oaken leaves,
soon the last powerstreams of summer droop,
around the dwelling of fire on the city of the dead
and as an echo of the black death, still lingers forgotten under the song of the wind -
a messy remnant of the dark fares, that the scourge of plague us once bestowed
behind deaths angel, the sunset-glow darken, shadow thickens under oaken leaves,
soon the last powerstreams of summer droop,
around the dwelling of fire on the city of the dead
and as an echo of the black death, still lingers forgotten under the song of the wind -
a messy remnant of the dark fares, that the scourge of plague us once bestowed
the plague cemetarye nook of cracked stone
closeby, here slumbers in the place of centuries
the whisper from the past converges, with the temple of death of our own time
