My name is an erased Hieroglyph
My clothes are patched up with the wind,
What I carry in my clasped hands
I will not be asked of, and I will not answer.
As if before a battle,
A serious battle
Standing at every single crossing
At the sea of asphalt I see my shoreline,
My spread of blue.
I quietly laugh at all of the questions
To all of the questions there will be no answer,
Because my name is Hieroglyph
My clothes are patched up with the wind.