From "Elegy of an Herald" (II)

I

The crumbling sky gets naked the storm,
Through the purple night;

Lost souls are still looking for a small light,
To heal up.

I throw myself into the darkness,
To reborn among the Fire of a Golden Torch;

I wipe out to myself through thorny trees,
To keep knowing that,
My old heart needs to stay calm,
To unlearn old-obsolete tablets,

And Destiny is not a mere dice throwing;

It is the struggling that,
Everyone chooses to fight,
Against the same life;
In which if it's defeated,

We'll arise like gods,
Among the gods,

And finally to know that,

Dancing is better than running,
Whereas Divinity has always been laid on,
Expecting to be found out.

Nobody dies in a forgotten-sand grave!
Keep suffering is just an old thorn
We're accustomed to feel!

The Lost Ones have opened their eyes,
And they have seen the palest life;

The Wrestling has begun,
For the Originality.

II

The night is giving her last whisper,
Around the slept city;

The silence is quietly broken by roaring engines,
In which dreamers dance their melody,
Trying to forget their misery.

It's easy to give oneself away when,
The sins are washed off,
In the middle of a singing madness!

Beyond the wind,
There are silent claimings,
Expecting to be arisen,
In the Glory of the Great Noon!

And our daily breath is the decree,
To keep going!

The future is an illusion,
If the birds are still crying,
In the same cage.