The light wraps you in its mortal flame. 
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way 
against the old propellers of twilight 
that revolves around you. 

Speechless, my friend, 
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead 
and filled with lives of fire, 
and pure heir of the ruined day. 

A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment. 
The great roots of night 
grow suddenly from your soul, 
and the things that hide in you come out again 
so that a blue and pallid people, 
your newly born, takes nourishment. 

Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave 
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold: 
rise, lead and possess a creation so rich in life
that its flowers perish and it is full of sadness.