The sky was darker than fallen ripe plums.
Evening shadows erase the last of the paint.
I don't need it, kissing nights are playful,
Stretched out in powerlessness, these caresses are painful to me.
The stars twinkle in the captivity of the sky alone.
There flutters like a bird, blind hope.
What is the thought of future misfortunes? It's a waste of time.
There is food for the soul, and simple clothing for the body.
It is foolish to be sad, in life who this is not eternal,
All thinking too much and often sighing.
After all, the flesh under the feet of the hourglass feeling
A priceless gift, already marked by fate.