In this solemn nothingness, an orchestra starts playing, stone chapels, red berries and a quiet world praying. It is freedom we seek, a village of clay; the war is over, so we choose to stay. Goddesses to pilgrims, the scenery has changed, same eyes, same gaze, same faith, mbascìe.

Still red, at sea, concrete, down go the tyrants, aboard the jester with the drumbeat, the fleet of currants.

Hopping royalty, we speak alike, whisper the hunter and the hunted, åkande, impaling, a lonely shrike, a quiet banquet, unfunded.

Fieu es levant e ponent in la malinconia d’üna cultura extinta. El es silenzi orchestràl, bes-cha cotschnas sün flommas avertas, boccas romanticas e tabac in la mastichaziun a ritmus da folk lunsch. El es terra fritga perquai cha’l es ars, ün dansà a la maniera da Klee a las rivas da quai chi d’eira