The moment of resurrection has already come.
We are not awake.
The lands troubled by the blazing sun
glow suddenly.
Night is full of dread.
Every dwelling is deserted.

Evening shores have embraced fire.
People are awakening everywhere.
I tend to think
fast blowing winds are pouring down on me
sweet beams of sleep.

Teenagers worried about
their dirty cities and class society
are enticed to go to the bright streets
across the seven oceans.
They are burning themselves
in the fire of poisoned days of blockade.

Even in the charming summer evenings
when buds flower,
their lips are sterilised.
Weeping continuously at every step
they sleep on thresholds.