In its mortal flame the light envelops you.
Absorbed, pale, suffering, so situated
against the old propellers of twilight
that revolves around you.
Muda, my friend,
alone in the lonely of this hour of deaths
and full of the lives of the fire,
sheer heir of the day destroyed.
From the sun falls a cluster in your dark dress.
At night the great roots
they grow suddenly from your soul,
and to the outside things return hidden things in you,
so that a pale blue people
of you newborn is fed.
Oh great and fertile and magnetic slave
of the circle that in black and golden happens:
upright, try and achieve such a lively creation
that their flowers succumb, and full of sadness
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