On the way, we are sitting hopeful you and me,
There where is the feeling of song and voice comes,
we are lost upon the skies and the earth,
What the joy is in those words that torment us,
like a sword on the throat,
Are we made for the home that only rejoices the salt we eat?
Like the days and the nights are made a still wheel by the time
of the God,
And we are the thieves of the cosmos who while sitting keep on hoping in the self and only in self for each other.