As I walked by the lakeside late one winter's night
alone along the moonlit shore, I took my time.
I looked across the landscape, overcast with light,
and, on the water's surface, saw a flock of swans.
In nights like these, nothing is better than to walk;
I wondered at the beauty of the swans, their feathers white as snow.

I was expecting it would start again to snow.
It had been cold for days now and this night
seemed colder still; it was a chilly walk.
I wondered as I strolled along the shore about the time
the lake would freeze; I wondered if the swans
would flee then to the south, into the warmth, the light.

As I walked on I saw, afar, a light.
I walked towards it, my boots crushing the snow.
Behind me was the flock of swans;
they slowly disappeared into the night.
I didn't turn to watch them, for I knew there was no time;
destroyed was the illusion of a calm night's walk.

A man came towards me, but he did not walk -
he ran, and in his hand he held the light.
"It's time you came," he called, "Good Lord, it's time."
And then, all of a sudden, it began to snow.
I found it hard to make his features out at night,
but surely he was scared. Far in the distance cried the swans.

I thought of feathers as I followed, and of swans:
of how delightful they would often make a lonesome walk
and of how snow-like their pale plumage glowed at night
whenever it was shone on by the full moon's harsh white light.
We ran now, and we stirred up snow;
there was no other way to act, for we were running out of time.

When we arrived, the man asked if there still was time;
I didn't know. I wished then that I still were with the swans.
The house was quiet, and the falling snow
silenced all sounds. "Go for a walk,"
I told them all but one, whom I commanded to make light.
The patient, when I turned to her, was cold already, like the night.

I stepped out in the snow, continuing my walk;
the swans were waiting for me, but there was no light.
I glimpsed into the shards of time as I walked on that winter's night.