There is still a bit, there is still a little*
Until the great nothing.
There is still a moment or an hour
Of all that was and that is left.
There is still a bit, there is still a little
And I will try to get up
And restore the silence**
Of the thought of rising up.
I, myself, will return in the trees, in the flowers,
In the madness of colours.
There is still a bit of thought, of dream
Without pain and speech,***
I will turn into a handful of soil,
The amount of dust or snow you take on a finger.
I will return in those who will be.
Those who will be...
Those who will be...
Those who will be...
There is still a bit of thought, of dream
And I shout to the abyss
From the altitude of thought
I watch those who will come.
There is still a moment or an hour
Until the great halt
And I shout again to the sky
To solve this mystery.
The mystery is today a dream
And the roads have opened
And we rise again to the sky
Without pain and speech
I will turn into a handful of soil,
The amount of dust or snow you take on a finger.
I will return in those who will be.
Those who will be...
Those who will be...
Those who will be...
There is still a bit, there is still a little
Until the great nothing.
There is still a moment or an hour
Of all that was and that is left.
There is still a bit, there is still a little
And I will try to get up
And restore the silence
Of the thought of rising up.
I, myself, will return in the trees, in the flowers,
In the madness of colours.
There is still a bit of thought, of dream
Without pain and speech,
I will turn into a handful of soil,
The amount of dust or snow you take on a finger.
I will return in those who will be.
Those who will be...
Those who will be...
Those who will be!