The piles of harmony, little by little,
are breaking into fragments,
vanishing behind the curtain of divisions
within the chambers of caste and clans.
A massive line of rage floods everywhere;
here, vultures keep arriving in flocks,
and the eyes of hyenas glare with ruthless hunger.
Only the herds of deer remain helpless,
the flocks of sheep have surrendered all hope.
Yet still, the pilgrim crows keep fighting—
with brickbats balanced on the tips of their beaks,
they leave behind proofs of resistance.
Some, merely to survive,
stay awake through the deepest darkness,
waiting for a new dawn—
for a preserved rose
and one more attempt
to spread its fragrance.
