He stands alone upon a high black mound and hears
The echoes in the air, the voice of his defeat.
Before his eyes
The battlefield spread out.
His valiant dreams are crushed and wounded bodies lie
Scattered, tossed around the field
On every side.
So many dead!
And those, who still have some breath left
Are sobbing,
Waiting for the hand of death to strike.
These are his dreams,
This is his army,
Stalwart men;
They left their homes, and on their way took many lands,
So many overweening royal heads they bowed,
And ramparts crumbled, fell, submitting at their feet.
All they had to do was arrive
And quaking, shuddering gates
Were opened
Of every fort,
Of every palace
In those days every sight brought pleasure to their eyes.
The earth was bathed in gold,
The sky was clothed in blue.
But in this regiment of dreams who could have known
that every story, every fable has its end?
Let victory be heralded a thousand times,
But there always be a moment of defeat.
Far off like swarming ants
The enemy amassed.
He sees
They summon reinforcements to their side.
These hunters have come out to stalk their awesome prey.
The earth cries out:
'The siege is near and closing in!'
The winds call:
'Now the time has come to sound retreat.'
But there was never any plan of turning back.
As he advanced, he never gave a thought to this.
He looks around.
Before him is the open sea,
And nothing on the shore
Except a heap of dust.
That was his ship,
Which yesterday he put to flame.

The shouts of murderers draw nearer, ever close.
He stands alone upon a high black mound and hears...