As life, eventually this rain will end,
And our souls with their trampled grounds,
All pitted deeply, fractured, worn and bent,
In the primeval chaos will be drowned.

There in the dark the everlasting stream
Floats predecessors’ shadows to their limits,
And clouds thrash around as feral beasts
Caressed by hands that no one witnessed.

And all this rain, insane, inexorable rain,
Still feeding earth which is already humid,
Becomes prophetic as the artist’s pain
Who’s giving birth to a living spirit.

And our voices are swept away by night…
The cry of memory blends with the distance,
With silence, and with all that one cannot
Surmount by revolt, or by consistence…

Face buried in your hands, you will
Forget yourself in an elusive yearning,
and Fate will through your fingers leak,
Just like this rain that ended in the morning.