Unholan urut [English translation]

One recongnizes a palm by the fist

and a decent man from his attitude

Even the hard husk parts from the grain

A word is a man's measure, he won't slip

even if the road is made of gold

under the inviting procession

I've been waiting for the future,

I've been waiting,

now I spend time, the past time,

that will be celebrated on the organs of oblivion

Responsability won't open no spelling book

Nor will spell out sorrow

In the house of whole notes*, heads of monuments

A competitor is polishing his silverware,

Those staying alone are making a bonfire**

the lazy ones snort as they rise from the fire with their fellows**

I've been waiting for the future,

I've been waiting,

now I spend time, the past time,

that will be celebrated on the organs of oblivion

I've been waiting for the future,

I've been waiting,

now I spend time, the past time,

that will be celebrated on the organs of oblivion

And when I think of death,

I think of

the things I didn't have time to get

and of how I will be celebrated tomorrow

on the organs of oblivion...