In the steppes man is a sign of grief,
a tree loaded with imagery,
swaying in the unpassable valley;
in his wake is destruction,
corpses that stalk the flesh.
When the day comes and man
goes out into the steppe
he will take a deep breath
and look at himself,
look at the very heart of every being:
On his face an incessant rain,
he sets off for God’s forsaken home.
Forsaken a long time since,
timeless a long time since,
not even the slightest last reverberating hum
of divine punishment and clemency can be heard.
When man goes out into the steppes, he asks why,
why God cares so little about us.
Man is a cloud of dust in his steppes.