At the beginning of dawn, day is rising,
The transparent dew sticking to the ground,
At the foot of the hill a small stream murmurs,
Perpetually licking the snowy valley.
Countless armies have passed this way,
Many settlements and camps have been put up,
But none of them remained in place
The way the tree by the road and house did.
The mill’s a structure not unlike a house,
In the valley where fiery blood’s been spilt,
Of horse and soldier and local peasantry;
It is a place where dark and dawn are born.
For a moment it makes you think of paradise,
At first, look the place seems tranquil,
Even though smoke, birds and the stream’s hum
Mar the peace of the picture of the sleepy place.
Emotions ruffled my thoughts, reason stopped,
The sky was dark, the ground soft under foot,
In fear, I started running over the hill,
Disappearing from the accursed place.
December 15, 2003