We are like a thorn in the ribs of the Earth
with our customs, mere ideals of clay
we smear ourselves with dust and frost
within our bodies, our bones, rusted by time, are snapping.

The grass riffles on the copper chines
the lands scream with bitter voices
on the heights, the wind also flies
calling the thirsty souls.

The clouds and the eerie mists are coming
the long forgotten times are weeping
When I lie lonely on a terrace, listening to them.
Because the season cries, the trees spin away.

Everything fades in a moment's time, they flee below
the frozen stones, piercing the hollows,
and, slowly, they're melted down by ardours
that reach towards a nebular graining.