Of the sunset, of the tearing look, the forbidden pray,

Of the last Sunday, the sun at the end of the day...

Of the early afternoon, the steamy fireplace of the past,

Of the thirst in the mouth, to which saliva opposes at last...

Last hour, sad, of promises that are weakening,

Of the Phoenix for ever dead, of the universe on the horizon of the world.

And inside the smooth and stiff hand, there is the wood of the Carpenter. People suffer.

Only the empty freedom remains, by law, drifting in the deep ocean...