You think that life is a a fire, that progress is an irruption, that the future is wherever your bullet strikes... No.

The afternoon is sad and Gray.
The sea is dressed in velvet
and the sky is swathed in grief.

A bitter, sonorous complaint
arises from the abyss.
The waves,
when the wind sings,
weep...

The violins of the fog lament
for the dying day.
The white foam intones a
miser-ere...

Harmony floods the sky
and the wind carries the deep
and mournful song of the sea.

Strange music bursts from the
horizon's trumpets,
as if it were the reverberating
voice of the mountains...

As if it were the Invisible...
As if it were the thunder that a
lion hurls into the wind.
My love...