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 flowerstreams 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 mossy remnant of the dark fates, that the scourge of plague us once bestowed

Behind deaths angel, the sunset-glow darken, shadow thickens under oaken leaves,
Soon the last flowerstreams 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 mossy remnant of the dark fates, that the scourge of plague us once bestowed

The plague cemetery nook of cracked stone
Close by, here slumbers in the peace of centuries

The whisper from the past converges, with the temple of death of our own time

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