Soon I will come to the end of my journey
and another statue will disappear.
But you see you cannot **** the sculptor
Only hire the black priest to wash away your sins.

Your unkind words mean nothing to me
Life runs through your fingers like white sand
and many unborn days disturb your mindfulness.
The black priest cannot help you.

I sing to the same stars in Taiyuan
that I once sang to in Albacete with the Brigada Abraham Lincoln.
Then the Spanish people grieved for our going.
You only grieve for the shade of the evening
And the silence of the Fen river.