I left to get closer to this moon.
In my town any purged night
It is the open window towards waste
of stars... a candle, inopportune.

The flimsy rifles in their cradle
They sleep before midnight.
Languid is the shadow of the puppet
who observes fortune in silence.

What are you looking for when everyone dreams?
What a foreign watch in such calm.
What work, fervent, they already undertake it.

What beats in the serene and makes him soulless.
What forces excite and derail him.
What does this moon retain from my soul?