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In the shadow of black rocks |
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Under the overhang of roots and snakes' nests |
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There He used to sit and sing |
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He sang his songs |
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Which nobody understood: |
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He was old a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years? |
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Nobody knew it, |
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Maybe for thousands of years he has been in this world, |
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Maybe for thousands of years he has been in this world: |
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His eyes were dark, |
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But it was owing to wisdom and something mysterious, |
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They sparkled and penetrated everything, |
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When He played on his instrument, |
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The sky grew dark and wind became silent. |
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Over stony planes only wind runs |
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And mysterious shadows whisper their stories, |
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Many of them |
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He told at |
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His rock And |
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I lived them all with |
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Him. |
