Standing on an endless- motion field;

I abide the hour,
In which the Old Mother will
Break free,
From her melancholy;

How many tears has she cried,
While seeing her children,
Running blind,
Through the Forest,
Of the Wild!

How many kisses has she spread,
For new heroes to come,
While the old ones remain slothful,
And lack all kind,
Of warlike honor!

Patience is a lullaby,
Among white souls,

In which my time holds every minute,
To disappear among blue roses,

For everyday,
A new life is born,
To take shape,
In everyone's legs.