Nothing is worth much anymore in this time
The jesters and the fools
No more as though a tired bush
has lost a leaf
The leaves fall, who screams today
has already been tomorrow
The lines, that my life writes,
no one will read
The hand turns and never arrives
commands me according to a set plan
Whatever I do, it turns and turns
and ticks too late, too late, too late
The rain erodes the mountains
and it floods through the river
into the sea, the grass grows in the ruins
over and long ago
I only have a little time
full of hardship and complaints
of searching and wandering
on this earth
The hand turns and never arrives
commands me according to a set plan
Whatever I do, it turns and turns
and ticks too late, too late, too late
And the black of death darkens
our tired limbs,
which the rose grove doesn't scent
which whispers softly at the grave
A white body, so tender and soft,
so precious, smooth, and immaculate
It too sinks in the realm of shadows
This lot awaits also you
The hand turns and never arrives
commands you according to a set plan
Whatever you do, it turns and turns
and ticks too late, too late, too late
The hand turns and never arrives
commands you according to a set plan
Whatever you do, it turns and turns
and ticks too late, too late, too late