The languages have been extinguished like torches,
A marvelous unknown was rustling
And the foam of a foreign light descended on us.
The anemones of morning arose
Through the flags of the fallen dust,
Crown of illumination devouring empires of solitude.
Under the earth our parents were still sleeping.
The night weaved between their bodies
Long and unseen stalks like a tree of life
Yielding its burning bushes
At the heart of the mountain.
Heavenly wings of white doves grown
In the nest of a rainbow were flying above.
And the harps of the winds begin to play
On the waves of the water with fingers of light.
A red horse from a green pasture still
Holds the rays of the sun in the snow of the clouds.
We all might live now another life
And this is why our travelling souls
Have not found the shores,
Have never have found respite.
Thus we have arrived to this tipping point
Where the sky seems to be its own border.
Here, the Lord said He would come again
With seven angels piercingly sounding
On their golden, shining trumpets
Heralding that final, eternal silence
When the languages of the earth will be
Extinguished like torches in the twilight.