No one can sing in our place
here and now
even in days to come, perhaps.

The day is about to turn its page
The night pushes down the last sunbeam
The darkness wears an accomplice’s face.

No one
has a heart more inflammable than ours
on the side of holy suffering.

Tomorrow is not for sure more resounding
than this moment, this day.

The singing of the whirling circle
of food and clothing
is perhaps the utmost of honour.

Because
no one will come to replace us.

Translated by Chuong Dai