That in your own way you will transform me into ashes
That as a picture drawn with chalks
From your heart you will try to erase me.
And with a stake of an old pine
Endured in the heart of one who sighs
I would have to light up the pyre
Subjecting the violence of my foresight.
What will happen of those who knowing us
Then, when they want to see us again
They will have to search for us in winter.
What will be of our terrible screws
In the moment they don’t recognize us
The power to accept what they gave us.