Perhaps it's time, since there falls
From trees all leafage that has been
and shone,
To look our past calmly in the face
When its track of shade starts to pain.

Without humility and pride,
Let us recall ourselves in the night
from thread to thread,
And witness on rocks the zigzags of chalk
In which fragile testimony left its trace.

One day, trifling, small, one night blazing
with astral light,
Sometimes crucified, sometimes free and great,
often small,
Shepherds of chrysanthemums, prophets
for ants.
Above us eagles float blue in the sky.

And if our knees are torn by thorny paths,
Why does everything that has ever been
turn to sadness?
Is it not autumn? Let us make a shelter
of ourselves,
And gather the desert near the warmth
of homes.

Let's take spent ashes from ancient altars,
Kindle them anew, give them
more fruitful smoke.
Let us scatter the seed on future plains
Hoping sadly for the late harvest.