The sound of the wind is stronger.

The hart has less space.

Small eyes look at us flooded by water,

With fear to understand the end.

The revolt makes higher the waves of the sea.

The cold of the mountain hinders our bones and chills the tears.

The caress are anchors that makes us harm, but

At the hour of goodbye dreams fade away.

Although at that hour...

Even the smell of the grass has a secret meaning.