8 acessos
Les corps n'en finissent pas de brŭler.
Onde de sang, vent ardent.
I rolled like the sand
the
water
unfurls.
We are the everdead, the spark in the air.
Dust and water,
The blood of the harvest.
And aimless on those muddy fields,
we wandered all night.
The columns of ashes
from the pyres draw
a solemn temple:
We have reached the altar.
Les corps n'en finissent pas de brŭler.