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Indelible furrows over the years on the pale mortal body you've been inhabited

Dweller of the world of the living with no birth nor fate, trapped in a false eternal meadow.

It rushes looking for shelter for itself, Scared by the sound of the bells

Escaping his sentence once again, Losing a part of itself.

More often and more clearly

Feel the presence of a shade

More often and more clearly

Knows his time has come.

Feeling like the dust scattered by the gusts of wind

Without strength or will to oppose.

Fading its essence

Little by little

It has to come to an end.