«Lonely in a cell I still hear the voices of the wind»...
Not that lonely, to make one cry of solitude,
But in that still state comes feeling of great areas,
Where dwells everything. Anybody is welcome, though
Not a soul enters. Waiting outside. Out of inside, thinking
To be aside. Although together we are, as one fist we`re bound.
This not being a cell of grave, though cell of being.
Not cutting from freedom, though enflaming with craving.

Under wet and cold wind the vision shivers. A dark silouette floats
On the velvet skies, and clouds congeals that misty life of shades.
A dream of flying awakens in the body, that falls asleep. The sight murks.
Not a body already, but only a ball of mist floats through woods,
Covered with night`s gleam, gleam not shining, though still and alive.

Sleep.
And vision dies away.
Nothing.
Star.