He scattered his blossoms

Among plays and games

In the childish dance of the whirlwind;

And in the silent summer

He yielded his fruits

And experienced the thirst.

He went on and on,

And the road took his tales

And gave them to tiredness;

And repetition,

With its cruel music,

Left no space for a pause.

There was a cup of tea in his hand,

Cold, with a bitter taste,

And in his mouth was a piece of bread

That quarreled with his teeth.

He could hear a call from afar:

"In your cup they have poured

The blood of your brothers,

And they have made your bread

With the yeast of your son's brains!"

On the pretext of being too old,

He said: " I can't hear."

The cry grew louder:

"What are you taking on this journey?"

And the old man showed his walking stick.

His sons who came in a line

From the farthest future

Down to his feet,

Set arrows in their bows,

And in the sight of History

Aimed at his head.

The stick fell from his hand,

The cup of tea broke into pieces,

The bread stuck in his throat,

And he rolled down the pit.

The wind carried his voice

To the introduction of History:

"We always suffered oppression,

Always learned oppression,

Always experienced oppression;

From whom can we ask forgiveness?"

And the wind carried the voices of his sons

To the end of Event:

"We see and we do not accept;

We see and we do not believe.

The truth has no doubt in itself,

The truth has no question for itself!"

And he could see

From the bottom of the pit

That his sons

Were taking off

The colourful clothes of History,

And on their naked trunks

New branches were blossoming.