In this battle we do not hold a shield in front of us. When we turn in sema, we do not hear the flute or the tambourine.
Underneath these feet we become nazar, the guide’s glance, ashes, wanderers.
As the moon diminishes every day, and then it is gone, to come back changed.
Send for the planet Venus to play here. Flute, drums, and strings are not enough.
No. Who but these musicians
could stand the heat that melts the sun?