He's like a thief in a desert land, steeped

He's like a thief in a desert land, steeped in dunes to the point of stupor, he steals in the garnet-and-sand afterglow from the scorpions time for stories. In them the sea rocks the cliffs, and the evening brings coolness. The trees there throw their crowns aslant, and the wind across the leaves strikes up a ballad. — I'm bored, — sang the guitar. — Banal! — struck the keen ears... — Let's trade, playing, all of this for something better?.. And now in oblivion the secret meetings: pride unsoldered their souls. And restlessly in the desert wanders he: there without wine they float under the sun, the horizons. He is doomed And sees wide awake one and the same dream. How the sea and the wind, wearing away the cliffs and the sharp rocks of the times, the ballad of their first meeting they sing in unison.