The alchemy of chance

Without any logbook
The pilgrims are groping their way
Towards the lair
Of minor fates

Worn out, in the fields
Landscapes which are rousing
The water of the waves
Pictures are passing before
The fulfilled days

The waves are flowing
Like the flames are shooting out of the wood
The birds are fleeing away
The urgent messengers
Are going to sound the alarm
To the guardians on duty of the temple

No headdress is getting lost
The beams of midday are appearing suddenly
Through the life showing the reflections
Of the hearts consumed with orphan fears.