Riding, riding, riding, through the day, through the night.

Riding, riding, riding.

And the heart has become so tired, and the longing so vast. There are no longer any hills; hardly a tree. Nothing dares to rise up. Alien huts squat, thirsting, beside muddy wells. Nowhere a tower. And always the same scene. One has two eyes too many. Only when it is dark do we sometimes think we know the way. Are we doubling back every night, over the ground we won with so much effort under the alien sun? Perhaps. The sun is heavy, as it is in our country in the depth of summer. But it was summer when we said our farewells. For a long time the women’s dresses sparkled out of the green. And we have been riding for a long time now. So it must be autumn. At least there, where sorrowful women think of us.