Phantoms drawn from the waiting hills,
devoid of notions unfulfilled;
In silence breaks their worrisome thought,
which contaminates every sacred plot.

At ease the dance of dawn alights,
caressing strains of fortune's might;
And with the chill of subsequent fears,
sing softly then slowly disappear.

The mountains shed an early snow,
which captivates in the daylight's show;
Then morning and night become the same,
toward the inner caverns of the waiting game.

As if in a trance the hours slip by,
where no one rests and no one cries;
Forever grieved these phantoms try,
to escape their fate borne from the sky.