We are on the verge of the night that is approaching, whirling and whirling

At the edge of the bridge composed of the murmurs uttered when we are delirius

How is it possible to narrate why all these injuries occur, without arms and weapons

How is it possible to explain this depthlessness causing the flower to fade

Life is a ball of silk thread, multicoloured

Life is all the sad poppies standing still under the rainbow

The mystery in how a man falls in love with a woman silently


Three sisters and brothers were we, just before the windows were broken

Brought up were we, in the houses with gardens without trees

An ill-omened winter was it. Maybe in December

In the dead of winter, if ever it disturbed mother


Never had we ever seen such a downpour piercing in the houses

A crimson love, a crimson sunset, growing up were we, slowly and silently


An overpouring despair was it, in fact, the make-believe prayer and the night


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