All times we hope to sleep in our hands.
Alas! This hope - sometimes - become so free
like drops of rain that falls between sare sands
and quenches into steam we never see.
I see echoes of pain on many tongues.
The echoes run reversed; more time - more pitch.
The parents, children, humming quasi-songs
of this one dirge: \"why make Earth\'s belly rich?!\"
But dawn will surely spark behind midnight
and thousand ills shall scamper to their death.
And the just king shall - on us - shine his light
to give a testament to all with breath
that: so long this just king resides up high,
these hopes, like steam-drops, will rise to the sky!