The night is silent, without a noise,
there's only the sound of silence
and the warm air carries the taste of stars and absinthe,
the fingers brush against the still stones
warm from the sun, memory or myth,
darkness has taken the palm trees,
it looks like the day never existed.
I, the lookout, the enlightened,
eternal watchman of I don't know what
innocent or sinner, I look for the shady moon
and I await, motionless, the propagation
of the wave of thunder that will follow
the bolt of lightning of a question,
a man's voice asking:
Watchman, what is left of the night?1
Watchman, what is left of the night, what is left? (3x)
For centuries or for a moment, I have been
motionless in a void where everything is silent,
I can't tell for how long I have felt anguish or peace,
with heightened senses, detached from time,
detached from the world, I wait
for someone, in a whisper of voices or wind,
to come and ask a question.
And I feel them, as thin as fingers,
but I hear voices, I hear a murmur
and I feel I am the infinite echo of God
and then, countless as sand,
anxious, nameless darkness,
but a single voice of faith or rage
a cry in the night that will ask:
Watchman, what is left of the night?
Watchman, what is left of the night, what is left? (3x)
The night, listen, is almost over,
but the day hasn't arrived yet,
it looks like the flow of time got stuck.
But I am always vigilant, therefore you must insist,
you can do this, ask again2,
come again if you want, don't grow weary.
Centuries, gods and goddesses will crumble
towers will crumble and kingdoms will crumble
and what will be left of men and ideas is dust and symbols,
but now I understand my inability to understand,
that no answer will come,
that the answer about the future
is in a voice that will ask:
Watchman, what is left of the night?
Watchman, what is left of the night, what is left? (5x)
1. Isaiah 21,112. Isaiah 21,12