Years pass us by; they make us know
What the times ultimately are. To me,
They're the changes: the solid stream
Of images, codes, signs, and symbols
That form the terms of revelation.
I do observe the changes flown through
Invisible times and visible milestones,
Standing between some ridiculous terms
And shortages of our vows, rites,
Rituals, and ceremonies I oblige to myself
In a kind of spells and numeric symbols.

But if you'd like to lend your ear
To what is coming out from the air
Of my stumbling tongue, you'd learn
Some weird things that I do not dare
To tell about to my stubborn self,
But you can consider well.
The times are passing by, that's true ;
And I'm following them smoothly,
Swaying from last night straight
Into the morning of tomorrow,
Forgetting of myself at present day
In rush, in rush, and ceaseless vanities. . .

I pass thru the times and all the subjects
Of this tight bundle swing over my mind
To be released in the wilderness --
The area of wild horses herded by unicorns
All over forbidden lands of their dreams
Where we sow and where we reap,
Where we scatter and where we load,
Where we lose and where we gain any time,
Like in a fairy tale about the endless ending
To be actually continued without warning.