Look me in the eye, child of the dark;
Wind of the eternal solitude – my friend.
Hear! as how it cries, the listless lark,
And marks, in such a dreadful way, the end.

They stood erect in wheat-fields, shaded
By the ageing oak. Wearing all their years;
Their memories of pain, all else faded.
Then the scythe falls; with vehemence clears
The field – and cry, lark, cry! Drowned in fears
We listen. We, who live our lives so jaded;
So alone! So empty and so very weak!
Among the wheat, where we our answers seek.

That night they turned away and never looked back.
The early spring brought forth the harrows
That ploughed the earth, the hunters in their tracks;
Seeking the prey laid bare as the wheat on barrows;
Bound and fated by the forceful narrows.
All their lives lie sundered by the wrack
Of workers, trying to survive in endless days
And years gone by from seeds to hays.

Upon an oaken branch is the small lark´s seat;
She sings to greet the rays of sun between the leaves.
Beneath her, dancing: the growing wheat,
And from afar the wind watches as it heaves
With rasping sounds. Thrown at its feet
Are we – the dying. Its for us she grieves,
The lark. She sees the end; perceives
As how away the ages relentlessly fleet.
All while we wait for the travellers flight;
Born by the winds to a place without night.

It lies around us now, the fallen fruit
Of lives spent living in the shade.
The coloured leaves fell down and killed the lute;
Its mournful tune on which they preyed,
The beasts above, and we down at its roots;
Who cage the wheat in cells of sturdy jute.
The fields left barren where once they swayed
So proudly. Underneath the wings gone home
Lies frozen earth upon which starving hunters roam.

Without its skin and singing voice, the ancient oak;
A skeletal body in the falling snow.
Awake to see the father of the day evoke
All miseries of years before; to show
How foolishly we lie waiting in frosty cloaks;
In waiting for that sun, provoked,
To rise; To let us into blissful wheat-fields go.
Its far away, that slippery respite,
And watching from a branch, the hungry kite.

Let blow, the wind of the eternal solitude
Upon the fields where everything conclude.
We expected life to change this time; but hark!
Hear! as how it returns, the harrowing lark.