Shut up, Azbe, and listen
to this vast silence,
wounded with terrible aromas and colors.
Now is the time
for the trees to be wrong
and the birds, maddened,
bite the three faces of the night.
No one prays
in the house of dreams.
No one falls down the steps of heaven.
And the precise
machinery of time, a shining prodigy
of parts and gears, turns
backwards,
hot, squealing:
The milk returns< br/>in pansid sinuses; slowly
the flesh decays and the trees
root towards the sky;
the light
returns to the sun, past the moon,
and a god of stone floats on the sea.
You and I,
sweet and tragic Azbe,
we have not yet been born.
[English translation:]
Now is when all nature days
Human nature darkens skies
When all is lost
I look to you and you alone
I seek shelter from the rain
All I have done გve done for you
And you can't live with that
You want everything I am
Back in a time when things were dark
A veil of dim obscurity
From the mold of clay we came to earthen jars of weariness
From where we came to where we are
Bodies of life to veins of vinegar
We were so pure, where are we now ?
Faith in man forfeits its lure
Punctured by smells and fierce colors
White hot, streaking
Shining in the sky
One last streak until I die
One last flame until I go
You mean all to me that...

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