Wandering through the depths of Nile,
He, who speaks the language of time
Pervasion of fear and doubt
Even the slightest wind seems so loud.

Tears beneath, rise to fulfill
Who believes the water is still,
Palace of bones fell into quiescence
Full yet do not come to his senses.

Leaving the manuscript of lachrymosity
To whom who hears unevenly
And for the elegies — thorns of rose
Punctured to made him the sad prose.