Nothing inspires the stranger anymore;
his eyes in full, active vagrancy,

searching for any brisk encounter with virtuous hope,

but they only land on a ray of sunshine,
highlighting the path, pointing west.

To the west, he finds dry land,
mischievous land, hungry for arms of kindness.

Impalpable, catatonic mirage, reflected by the sounds of shivering dead grass,

blown by the November morning wind.

And hollow, doorless churches to the west, at this hour, meet drafts

that carry the force to blow out all the praised and chanted candles—
for the loved and lost,
for the warmth of the body,

for frostbitten souls.

It’s in that darkness the stranger realises himself:

standing on his knees,

patting and crying over this land,

asking for ease, begging for bliss.

And it's the pain he feels,
that kills him harder than the death itself.