The snow is white,
the ice is gray
on the broken and cracked soil.
A patchwork quilt lies on it,
city rounded by the road's coil.
Above the city are running clouds,
blocking the light of the sun,
and above there's golden smoke.
The city has grown old by 2000 years
living under the light of the star called sun.
And for 2000 years, war rages on.
No one knows the reason or wage.
War: the business of the young,
the cure against old age.
Red, red blood:
it absorbs into the ground after one hour,
and flowers and grass grow after two.
And after three, it comes back to life at once,
warmed by the light of the star
called the sun.
And we know it will go on for years
by the man who is loved by fate,
who lives by other rules,
and whose death will not be late.
He doesn't remember the words “yes” and “no,”
he remembers neither rank nor name
and can reach the faraway stars.
Don't assume that it is a dream
that fell burning from the star
called the sun.