All fires extinguished, the patches in the Country.

In the church, in the oven, in the house, 

in the workshop, everywhere, in the castle, in the heart, 

the ruins, the ashes. And the bread is gone, the coppersmith is gone, 

the woman is gone, the brave men are gone, 

the priests, and the craftsmen of rhythm,

the prophets of the Word.

The hands are paralyzed, and the hammers 

are taken and no one strikes

the chariots and the plows,

and if the kneader's trough closes with a little wheat,

it cannot find the fire to make bread.

And from the cold corner the room is full,

and even more so from the corner where the heart of the house is, the heart of man has gone bad. 

Pity. Pity. The church is a dark ruin,

and the castle without warriors, and it is filled with grass,

and it has become a pasture.

And great Love is far away, and man is helpless

and inactive, and by his side the woman

has the slavery and the lie as her servant.

All fires extinguished, the patches in the Country.