Seasons

The clock ticks slowly during the night;

Silent echoes everywhere in the house;

Soon the bird of the morning will fly.

We will move upward from the haunting,

Of sleep that raises to the sky's ceiling.

The soul, moved by the night, recalls temptations.

Still influenced by the past, we have acted;

Upon the calmness and not the forgetfulness.

The quiet emits vibrations through the skin;

Into an object for emergency.

A river of regret flows in the fjord.

Water moves rapidly,

Waves divide the cliffs in summer.

Will He move Us?

From the hours of slowness during the night,
To the echo that causes calm in all places,

Inside the house, the manner high promotes,

A wail from al-Sabah that denotes the bird's arrival.

In our sleep, the bitter effect of recollection calms,

Their case of forgotten endurance.

After the past fades into dreams,

We behave as if our souls have moved the night.

We have moved in the night;

Tempting faith with proximity of fate.

Rivers regret their presence in the fjord;

In the water, he moves quickly.

Calm down and swear in the last direction

Of disappearing cliffs!

Echoes

Hours of tardiness transfer the slow night,

To shifts that promote the impact of violent sound.

The silence slows during the rest so total,

The spring's bitterness affects the waiting's reprisal.

Inside the house, a kick of the sound echoes;

Cases of forgotten souls that concern tempting faith.

RIvers regret their presence in the vicinity,

Of torpor that fades in dreams.

Transmissions in the cliff attract faith.

We have ourselves at night.

As night concerns the souls,

We have peace in the night.

Wild duck of the peace swear against,

The loaded direction of the winter.

Cases have been forgotten.

Unlike the cycles of the season,
They return with retroactive vindictiveness.