Bellum internecinum,
palmam qui meruit ferat,
summa sedes non capit duos,
nobiscum deus!

Sha! Rha! Mahktorr khali
Sha! Rha! Sheverrhathi
Ohnisuhndhi shesnoverrhat!
Sha! Rha! Mahktorr khali
Sha! Vidikuba!
Dhaz kerrnhatzo
khui bidikushi selikhubha!
Sha! Mahktorr khalidhrra!

Tikiriririri Démbérémbérémbérém Nuoanuoa...

The shadow. The treacherous shadow;
the shadow. The sadistic shadow;
the shadow. It’s the tragic shadow
of him who beats the disgrace of the world.

I sing, I sing to the wind
under the silent din
“cowards carry a rifle”.

I sing, I sing to the time
of the six scorching doves:
“the brave sew carnations”.

I sing, I sing to the verse.
Of the mourning prayer
never knowing who I am,
the burning accusation.

I smile and write in tears
words with gilded letters
that should not be spoken,
that should not be done,
that should not be felt,
that do not befit
an absence of hope.

The shadow of him who beats,
flees from my luck when I behold him.

The shadow of him who dances
flies gladly beyond the skies.
The shadow of him who feels,
if he does not tremble,
drinks from my wellspring
the disgrace of the world.

There is a maiden who combs corpses.
There is a prince charming
with buttonhole eyes.
There is a tale
that begins but never ends.
There is a tune
that frightens from afar.

Black-hearted fairies,
Foul fireflies,
escaping from hell,
blessed in the underworld.
It’s the deceit that poisons the illusion
of filth, of lies,
of greed, of the terrible flower.

The angel of night kisses my forehead.
When noise turns to sleep
I will be the tears in your eyes
and forget the fearful world.

When the gloom of my smile
reaches the fringes of the seas
you’ll wish you’d never seen me,
and hide the skin of your crime.

And all yearning for a new dawn
lies on Charon’s barge
while you, life-monger,
will know no return
while you breed spider webs.

When noise turns to sleep,
you, bastard angel, will laugh and speak peace.

Within yourself you breed the faithless fate;
within yourself you excrete the deafest speech;
within yourself you pray the foolish trap
while you fornicate with the promise of peace.

Glory in the rebel heaven!
Struggling with great waves!
With wild serenity! Glory!

I will dream of an untamed steed
galloping through the word.
I will relive the child I was,
Triumphant, bursting with grandeur, and knowledge.

Galloping through the knowledge of the word
like the magic of budding love!
I will relive it with exultant beauty!
As in a game, I will defeat foolishness.

Soft and gentle rain falling on
the purple ridges
that embrace me and cradle me,
that love me and speak
no lie.
They protect the virtue of our circle.

I will dream that our bullets
are made of paper,
are made of reason,
are made of song.
And if there were a battle
it would be sung.

I will dream that our bullets
are made of paper,
are made of reason,
are made of song.
And if there were a battle
it would be sung,
always with the word.

And if there were a battle
it would be sung,
for peace in the world.