As plum flowers revolt, the hostile dews
Safeguard the darkness engraved by the midday sword
The revolution will start next morning
The plaint of widows is like a wolf pack racing across the frozen plain

Due to a prophecy, ancestors retreat into
That river where faith argues hectically with desire
There is no end, there is only a vortical recluse
Experiencing another meditative tranquillity

Climbing high to behold sunset over the throne
As civilisation drifts off with the flute music in the empty valley
Seasons stand up from the debris and
Fruits creep over the walls to chase tomorrow