Listen, a bell tolls somewhere:
It says of a high day
Or, perhaps, a misfortune has arrived.
Muffling up the lyre,
It sounds far and wide now,
Has the ringer gone out of his mind?
No, the ringer isnít sick,
From the belfry, hears he
How, with firm step, Fate persistently walks.
íStead of towns and villages,
There are only cinders,
The jackboots trample on the standing crops.
There are no more forests
Warmed the Globe in old days,
Now the fire warms our Mother Earth!
Thereíll be, when allís burned down,
Nothing in a circle,
And again from nothing weíll go forth.
No, it isnít a slumber,
It goes on around us -
The black smoke, burnt out ground and decay.
From above, the ringer
Sees the picture clearly -
íCause of horror, heís turned fully gray.