Time, Printed

No night is throughout dark, Same brightness is not possible for all the days. In the loneliness of a night, The clock sounds: tick tick, tick tick... It seems to me: drum-beat noise— Dreams germinate from the seed-beds of disappointments. So many nights passed, I've not dreamed single dream— Sending our sorrows to exile in forests, We ourselves too entered into the secret bloodshed of the palace; Inside our chest, fearless hearts beating That seems to us: the brutal footsteps of the assassinators—