Seasons
The clock
ticks slowly during the night;
Silent
echoes everywhere in the house;
Soon the
bird of the morning will fly.
We will
move upward from the haunting,
Of sleep
that raises to the sky's ceiling.
The soul,
moved by the night, recalls temptations.
Still
influenced by the past, we have acted;
Upon the
calmness and not the forgetfulness.
The quiet
emits vibrations through the skin;
Into an
object for emergency.
A river of
regret flows in the fjord.
Water moves
rapidly,
Waves
divide the cliffs in summer.
Will He move Us?
From the
hours of slowness during the night,
To the echo that causes calm in all places,
Inside the
house, the manner high promotes,
A wail from
al-Sabah that denotes the bird's arrival.
In our
sleep, the bitter effect of recollection calms,
Their case
of forgotten endurance.
After the
past fades into dreams,
We behave
as if our souls have moved the night.
We have
moved in the night;
Tempting
faith with proximity of fate.
Rivers
regret their presence in the fjord;
In the
water, he moves quickly.
Calm down
and swear in the last direction
Of
disappearing cliffs!
Echoes
Hours of
tardiness transfer the slow night,
To shifts
that promote the impact of violent sound.
The silence
slows during the rest so total,
The
spring's bitterness affects the waiting's reprisal.
Inside the
house, a kick of the sound echoes;
Cases of
forgotten souls that concern tempting faith.
RIvers
regret their presence in the vicinity,
Of torpor
that fades in dreams.
Transmissions in the cliff attract faith.
We have
ourselves at night.
As night
concerns the souls,
We have
peace in the night.
Wild duck
of the peace swear against,
The loaded
direction of the winter.
Cases have
been forgotten.
Unlike the
cycles of the season,
They return with retroactive vindictiveness.
|