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Sighs the morning and spills from the body of that night. The rider in me, found it, crosses the steps of the paths. My dream is in my sleep. Looking for a spring ... There is drought in his chest. And he hurries to the low to get there.
Far from the cruel sky. In the retreats of rain ... And past. Face to face with the winter field (what a sense of closeness ...) the horseman escapes with me tired. And looking to drink his fountain ... .....
From the hill in the low the world shrank. Like a cub, he left the den. After this stranger someday my soul (probably) will pass ...