Moist soil tide Italy,
Washed stone breath,
- Time of the unstable time!
The shadow of the side slopes,
Cold, naked, nothing.
Flash gravel under their feet,
Humus taste of the leaves,
- No sound on the lips of luck!
Sigh of dawn,
Nothing had happened.
Night show is full of dew
The field of fresh clean,
- Alone, only its fragrance!
To all directions of the air,
For the most pure and open flowers.
How good the quiet life.
But it is passing thought ... ...
- In all this music come from?
It was a mass of thick clouds,
Between the stars and the wind filled.