The skies run, run, run,
All kinds of shiny circles are at the shutters.
All kinds of things become
Closer and closer.
I am cautious of falling things.
Of fire, wind, songs.
All sorts of winds strike the shutters.
All sorts of birds do speak.
But I guard my soul from them. Nor do I cry.
I remember you asked me to be blessed.
I am blessed, I am blessed.
The skies run.
They do not touch the hair upon my head.
They are nowhere near the wind which comes to me from you.
The skies run to a different place,
And the wind around us, a transparent ring,
As in a heat-wave at evening, we are the moon,
The wind is thick around us.