For stone was the blood, for stone the weeping, the prayer, the procession: stone was free will.

Because in sweet and in fine
the gods of stone were born
and then the saint of rain grew,
the lord of the struggles
for the corn,
for the earth,
for the freedom.

Does it help to throw ?
Does it help to fight ?
Does the negotiation around
    the table help for peace ?
Does word's help ?

So, in the rock grew
arms and mouths, feet and hands,
the stone became a monument:
it cut open the cold,
feelings for other humans,
add petals and feathers
and then time came and arrived,
left and returned,
returned and left,
until it deserted,
the kingdom without blod
    and without gods,
    and without power,
    and without prestige,
filled with pure censes.

Stone illuminated the world
with its natural status, let us stop
    fighting.
Let us have peace.