On the heath the figures tall
as pencils stand
together stand
and smoke arises
sacrificial smokes
a hand
grows out of the
moon
and comes towards
then stops
rises
rises higher the smoke
ah! that was in the turn of time
in ages of the centuries
that were long
long ago
slow yet irreversible
they faded.
slow and irreversible
ah! that was in the turn of time
in ages of the centuries
that were long
long ago
for age wins
wins so often, my monsignor,
so wearying.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem