Glimmer-Moon.
The glimmer-moon. Pale and round amidst the rolling clouds. A cool wind sweeps through the valley in the warm night. Frogs croak down in the meadows, and a dog is barking somewhere far away in the black night.
The glimmer-moon. The witching-hour. The moon shines like a dull silver coin above in the starless sky. The night. The night. The Raspiltoljan is about tonight. The mad man of the moon. His laughter rolls along the wind and the clouds like the low rumbling of thunder.
A hundred million moons, and countless stormy nights, have passed under the weather of the storms, while Raspiltojan dances. He dances, and he dances, and he dances. Then he stops a while to weep…
The glimmer-moon. Water running like wine from the moon and the sky. The wind whispers and dances for its own amusement, content with its own company. It howls, and whistles and blows, for the night is long and the pale moon is still shining above.
The glimmer-moon. Raspiltoljan is about tonight…
