It's a frosty night, and as though aflame
The northern sky is lit up
The folk of a silent farmhouse
Are getting their midnight slumber
Silently the moon goes on its way
The trees are white with snow
Snow covers the rooftops
Yet still the elf cannot sleep
He comes from the barn and stops in the snow
A gray figure by the doorframe
As is his old habit, he squints up
Towards the sky and the moon
He then looks towards the forest
Where pines shelter the farmhouse from wind
And turns around in his mind
His eternal problem
Caressing his beard he ponders
Shakes his head and his hair
"No, I cannot wrap my mind around it.
No, this is quite the problem indeed!"
Reasonable as he is, he casts off
These troubles of the mind again
And sets off to do his tasks and his work
To do his chores in the night
He inspects the granaries and storehouses
Pulls on their locks to test them
The cows dream only of groves
Bound to their shackles as they are
Gone are the reins and lashes from the back
Of the gelding, who dreams as well
While napping against the wall
Chewing hay in his corral
The elf makes his way to the sheep in their stall
Where they are lying down resting
The chickens watch him from their roost
On the highest bar sits the rooster
The watchdog is doing well in its kennel
It wakes up and wags its tail affectionately
Indeed, the gray-coated elf
Is very familiar to the watchdog
The old man sneaks inside the farmhouse
Where the family resides
The elf has known these folk to venerate him
Since a very long time ago
He tiptoes to the children
To see a glimpse of the little darlings
After all, who could blame him?
It brings him great to joy to see them
He has witnessed fathers and sons
Throughout the generations
Slumbering here; but from where
Did the innocent ones come from?
Generations upon generations
Have grown up, grown old, and gone - but where?
This is the problem for which
He is once more burning for answers
He makes his way to the barn attic
Where he has made his home
On his stack of hay close to the eaves
He is neighbor to a swallow
Even though the swallow is gone now
The scent of hackberry trees in the spring
Will surely bring it back
Along with its beloved spouse
The swallow will then chirp, as usual
Of the many memories from its journey
Though certainly the swallow is not familiar
With the problem that troubles the elf's mind
The moon shines in from a crack in the wall
Casts its light upon the old elf's beard
His beard sways and flutters in the draught
As he ponders his problem
The forest is silent under a layer of ice
All living things are at rest
The rapids alone still foam away
Humming from beyond the forest
The elf, now half asleep
Imagines himself traversing the stream of time
He ponders where it leads to
Where its source might be
It's a frosty night, and as though aflame
The northern sky is lit up
The folk of the silent farmhouse
Slumber till the morn
Silently the moon begins to set
The trees are white with snow
Snow covers the rooftops
Yet still the elf cannot sleep