His horizon is pitch black like treeless mountains.
All the purple summits and lively islands are dark.
When his chest shakes with "autumn" every morning...
And his spirit is beaten in broken mortars.

His heart is timid like the birds, his eyes are feverish.
Events make the sound of a mallet in his spirit.
He fights with time every night and day-dreams every day.
He always walks singing a song of suffering.

Time comes when he overflows with hope, a secret pleasure in him,
His head is where the transient are separated from Eternal One.
When he shouts loudly with a voice of steel,
Shudders are aroused in hearts in rising pitches.

He aches with love in the most remote places.
He always moans and walks; the roads moan with him.
Every day he pursues a new prey, every day in a trench.
He awaits the season that will enlighten the horizons.

Sometimes loyalty gives no echo, everything is speechless...
And blood-red nails pierce his spirit.
Sometimes spring scents waft fragrantly.
You see the wind singing a lullaby with a thousand aromas.

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3.25 Copyright (C) 2007 Alain Georgette / Copyright (C) 2006 Frantisek Hliva. All rights reserved."