The Song of the River

It is too late, the drops far from one another have mingled. It is too late the great river has set out on the dry breast of the earth, it sings it washes the moans of drought from the ears. It is too late roots and waves have mingled together: behind the curtain of the soil the map of the green garden is engraved, and time time time will not shake hands with the poisonous thorn... It is too late after this there is no silence...