Meditation

Obey, oh my pain, don't make such a noise.

You want the night; it comes down; it is here.

Some get peace, and some get distressed.

A dim atmosphere wraps around the city.

The vile mortals form in groups.

To be whipped by the merciless butcher's whip of pleasure

To the festival of humility to gather remorse.

O my pains, stretch out your hand and strike away

Away from them. Look at the long years of bending down

On the balcony of the heavens, in obsolete dresses.

From the bottom of the water emerges a laughing lament.

The dying sun has fallen asleep under the arch of the bridge

as if dragged in the long corpse clothes of the East.

Listen, my dear, to the footsteps of the gentle night.