Time moves on

with its slow, heavy minutes,

dragging behind it the wagons of the nights,

laden with their darkened secrets.

Time moves on, moves on, hauling life along,

and there, upon the carpet of the sands,

where the wagons have left behind

the remnants of the wheel tracks,

we are still here, an adze in every palm,

still digging the earth in desolation and gloom.

We weep here

while time moves on;

we dig the earth, searching for what we lost here,

while time moves on.

•

Alone, alone in silence,

alone and silent, we watch how the veins die

in our hands and in our eyes.

And there, beneath the dust, the living one waits

in sorrow and torment

for a sunrise to appear,

for him to see us at last, with our dimmed eyes,

crossing the abyss

and giving him back his youth —

that living one in the darkness.

Ah, if only the veins in our hands were whole,

that we might give him back his life.

•

Dig on alone now... I can bear no more...

Dig the earth