The people of the steppes

Nostalgia gripps my heart .

I will never see again 

the great valley where I was born.

Wolves have no boundaries 

except destiny ...

 Grain of sand lost in the inexpressible

where the breath of  the flute 

is in unison with lament of the violin.

 Journey through the wandering 

of the living .

 I am the people of the elusive dunes

contemplating the capricious dance 

of the nebula .

The star of the dead watches over 

the sleeping ridders who drink 

the spring of eternity .

 Shadows of heroes lurk ,

that the horses recognize and greet .

We are children of the relentless gallop ,

who dream of the roses of Esfahan .

 Our story is to pursue this horizon 

calling us at sunset over the great ocean..

 Path, only made of forgotten days 

gone by ,scorching seasons 

and brisk wind that warms the blood .

Bride of silence ,you have put 

on your wedding garments .

 The lute tells us the legends 

 of the ancients ...

  Tomorrow ,only ambers of the camp

  will remain .

    abandonned to the chaotic order

  of the dunes .

   Inummerable faces whose language 

  speaks to us .

   Bringing us ever closer 

    to the last departure .

where the steppe ends ,there is the way...