A little fir-tree flourishes

A little fir-tree flourishes,

who knows where, in the wood;

A rosebush, who can tell

in what garden?

They are selected already,

Consider, o soul,

to take root and grow

on your grave.

Two young black horses graze

on the pasture,

they return back to town

with lively leaps.

They will go step by step

with your corpse;

perhaps, perhaps even before

on their hooves

the shoe gets loose,

and I can see it sparkle.