Ask the moon who came to the yard who is the real owner of the leaf that fall in the rainy season, who has aborted, incarnate fertile nameless?
Yes, ask the moon that watches the leaves falling on that night to be blasted by the waves of dusk wind into the valley to the deepest estuary. Do not ask me who is just a weeds wounded, stepped on a wild horse in the savannas, then back to the origin of the fated land. It's useless to ask me, who can not talk anymore after the season grew by the beginning of the year.
Ask the moon, on the brightness of the full moon when fragrant fragrant blooms bring news of the death of anyone else who must receive with graceful chest. It's useless to speak loudly, poking my heart with a bamboo sword that I keep for the day of the celebration of freedom.
