| Il n’y a de citadelle imprenable que dans les livres des tacticiens
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| Et les murs de pierre sont aussi fragiles
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| Que les tresses de ta chevelure.
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| Lorsqu’ils surgirent innombrables, pousss par le Dvoreur
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| Et dj pleins du sang qu’ils allaient verser
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| Tu n’as pas vers une larme
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| Et les murs n’ont rsonn que du cri de leurs lames.
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| Le mot grav dans la pierre
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| Qui fend
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| Le vent captur
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| Porte vers les forts venir
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| L’histoire de ces murs,
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| Afin que mme les arbres pleurent et se lamentent.
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| Ainsi, lorsque la brume du sommeil se fait cume
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| La pnombre qui t’emporte
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| Ne pourra t’empcher de resplendir et de faire connatre
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| Ton nom.
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| Morte.
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| Mort.
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| J’tais mort et mort j’entrais ans le temple.
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| Le serpent, matre du soleil, gisait immobile
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| There are no unconquerable citadels but in tacticians' books
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| And the stone walls are as fragile as the braids of your hair.
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| When they emerged innumerable, urged forward by the devourer and filled with
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| blood to be shed, you did not she’d a tear
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| And the walls resounded only of the screams of their blades.
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| The word engraved in the stone
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| That disperses the captured wind
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| Carries toward forests to come
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| The history of these walls,
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| So that even the trees cry and grieve.
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| Thus, when the fog of sleep is made spray,
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| The half-light which carries you away
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| Will not prevent you from glowing and making your name known.
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| Dead.
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| I was dead, and dead I entered the temple.
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| The serpent, master of the sun, lay motionless… |