Here between the two rivers is
Night on the ancient hills.
Lying in the cold sand, the watcher is waiting.
He knows he is right.
He is immobile and erect,
His silhouette is hidden in the shrubs.
The wind is swaying the branches of the trees above him,
Though there's no wind today.
The night is spinning in beat with the lapping of waves,
Sparkling of the star.
And the watcher fell asleep,
Lulled by the lapping of water.
The night smells with the fire,
There behind the hill is the gleam of the fire.
The four are gazing into the flame.
Can it be that one of them is me?
Maybe it was a dream, maybe not,
We'll never know.
Somewhat closer to the morning the watcher will wake up
To go to bed.