It' sleeping, it did not die.
It will emerge from its sleep
(after a year)
I tell you, after twenty years
And it will wash its feet in the blood of kings,
It will dance till morning
And until evening
It will pull out its executioner's teeth and nails
Without malicious joy without despair
Sleep will leave it
When its good sons emerge from their sleep.
The apples of every eye
Have your eyes had their fill of fear?
Are you not worry of coffins?
Haven't the clouds of slumber and the mirrors of
sleepiness
been broken at the borders of nightmares?