A head of greying hair, bent on a stick
he is the shepheard of all times, on the way to the mountain
he won't go back, no, not go back
the poor low houses, injustice there, the slow rhythm of the voices,
close the smells and odours, balsamic fragrances,
left behind untold misery, behind are death and war
behind the myth of the earth, behind the myth of the earth
and thus arrive up there where the silence is fabulous
to set the soul free, to liberate the soul,
far away the island, voices, screams, to get rid of the roots
and carry on walking ahead in big long strides
dark are the woods in front of me and no more reconsiderations
leave all that behind to start anew
then sit down on a rock and think anew of your existence
far away the suffering now far away all overbearing
and arrive up there where the silence is fabulous
and free the soul, free the soul, free the soul.