That’s the winter – all my veins are frozen,
and in the streets is never ending rain.
What there is – wild men’s shouts or
the skies are shaken with their lasting pain?
And you fly like a stone of the sling,
and you cannot change a smallest thing,
only blood – the drop by drops together –
closely binds into the coral beads.
That’s the fire’s flame, that undermines the eyes,
or the tear comes into the eye and flies –
the ancestor’s stone is falling at the end
of the summer lightning nothing said.
