Between two rivers here:
Hills so ancient. It's night.
Lying deep in the cold sand waits the observer,
He knows he is right.
Amongst the shrubs his silhouette.
Branches are shaken above by the wind,
Although there's no sign of wind yet.
Night turns to the beat,
Both the waves and the stars gleam.
And the observer's asleep
Lulled by the shine of the streams.
The night smells of a fire,
Back of the hills there is a flame.
Four people look at the campfire,
Is it true, one bears my name?
Maybe it all was a dream,
Or maybe not, we may never know.
Sometime when it's close to dawn,
The observer will wake. Off to sleep he will go.