Shall ever bloom this sleepy face?
Many a moon passed by
And passed many a sun,
But never returned her grace;
Although the winds are sweet
Upon a hill where the horses run,
And she eats dried roses
In the memories of someone;
I speak the word of the truth
Which is denied by everyone,
Barely anyone will take care of her
When my day is done;
Horses shall halt—
And shall halt the breathing winds
Even if I head to a heavenly place
Shall never bloom this sleepy face.