If hard coal could talk It wouldn’t talk with you. Carraran marble wouldn’t look at you. But you’re making war, you’re shooting Across 1,000 versts and 1,000 years. And I won’t answer anything when they ask How the battle is going. In the erotic dreams of the young doorman You’ll be caught in a horn, And haughty maids will lash you to the lathe. They’ll crown you with flowers And rush off singing, In their hurry forgetting even your name, And nobody here will ever remember about you. And when the Silver Day comes, And the leaded crystal will be clean, And those who ran will find peace at last, You’ll rise from the bowels of the earth, healed, Not knowing who you are. I would like to be near when The knight extends to you The unwritten page.