Translated by A. Z. Foreman - Of Things Past lyrics

My father's lips as if speaking someone's blessing, His eyes turned to the hard green west and lost; He lifts the corpse-cold curtain at the window To let his fingers brush away the frost. Two stars, two needles stuck dead in the sky; And the frog-rumpled marsh in silvery gray. O let us keep the weekday cloth off the table! Let a keepsake of the Sabbath stay.