Heads of paint die in frames. Letters pray on stones. The smell of withering roses trembles. The echo of war songs melts. A powerful man rules the country.
Black slaves turn grindstones.
Blood flows, poison and wine, A sword rings, and money. I tremble reading History. And the old whore Clio, Seller of used truth, Fears neither poison nor swords But only the light of the sun. You didn't guess. The earth has sunk into the past.