Is the heavens’ height high?
Is the rivers’ depth deep?
Do not think of lot, soothsayer
If the time picked up its speed

Night will be changed into day
And again the Sun
Will make its trip in the sky

I will praise you, God of forged fire
Without cursing my own destiny

No more former days and previous roads
Can’t return to the past without step over it
To extol all the past is just vicious habit
That subsists in the epitaph’s words

I feel your power,
Barrows of ancient land
This power keeps me
Stand on my feet

I am calling you,
Spirits of barrows,
To became a grain
In the vortex of times