When I fled from Atlantis,
the noon was looking for its shadow,
the emporium was pounding with trepidation,
the palm trees were suffocating.
Where are you? Outside? Inside?
Above the clouds of detraction,
at night when the lights of the lagoon blaze,
and golden drops burn in the murky water…
Or below, like water thrown from one cliff to another,
for years, down, into the uncertain.
And I’ve been running away from Atlantis for forty-four centuries,
towards the Kaaba in Meccaand
while the noon was pounding with trepidation
in the drums of the bazaar, the palm trees were suffocated.
In the records of time sufferers are drifting and falling,
The Blind from one moment to the next,
The torment belongs to the desert.
Should I make a garden out of the desert?
Do hoi polloi need a barren land?
Should I open an airy magical wilderness garden?
Where are you running to, lunatic?
Behind the door of politeness,
beyond the boundaries of orderly longings?
Oh, good luck then!
Thus begins fear, contemplation,lamentation, anxiety,
to the farthest extremes a new era unfolds
My head with a double edged scimitar
They severed from my shoulders,
And stuck it on high, above this world,
in the shades.