At the bottom of the earth,
Where the mother of the wind lives,
and the flowers of the graves
spin the yarn of wick thoughts.
At the bottom of the earth,
Where butterflies flap their wings
on the paths of bungling scalpers,
hoping that the mother typhoon’ll move the sand grain of barren spirit.
At the bottom of the earth,
The mother of the wind is senseless,
The mother of the mountain fires life and forges death,
The mother of the sea’s whirling its flow upstream,
The mother of the winter unfreezes
the wings of the blizart on the icy stones,
The mother of the roses draws breath
from the fragrance of grief,
The mother of the wildernes’burning
the roots of thirst,
The mother of the black sea’sipping life from palmier trees,
The mother of the moon running trough iron clouds, like nebula through the light,
The mother of the earth gives, and gives, and gives,
Gives you everything you need,
At the bottom of this earth,
Only you human are dreaming to stay caved in eternity.
