Another drop, certainly the last in a long season
hitting the passer as the hammer blow on the board febrile
The rumble of thunder, grabbing a front, a revival of passion
To hell this land which runs rounder, which is more so fertile
wanton they tell us, we predict that they rebel, worn simply
Again this flake, lost at the bottom of a spring odorless
crashing on a bud born dead at the foot of a brick wall
worried looks on a leaden sky that threatens and scares
To hell with this land, which disrupts the seasons, who plays the sexually immoral
wanton they are telling us they are predicting rebellious, worn simply
Again these rays of the sun all winter expected with great impatience
that devastate the onlooker with a blinding light and assassinate its leather
how to run it again with occasional tan?
To hell with this land, which boils our summers just to fry us
wanton they say, they rebel we predict, worn simply
flickering again this sheet hanging over our heads
who picks up and offers his last dance to celebrate his death
frustrated little men to pick up corpses to a powdery crumb
To hell with this land, spreading its waste to taunt even better
Again this madness to believe silly old capricious
that man will not your skin already well cracked
is not counting on his thirst for destruction contagious
To hell with this world that just as agonizing to death.
wanton they are telling us they are predicting rebellious, tired just
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