Finally, we disappear
We cross a bridge
its arch lost behind us
Goodbye to our dark homes
with damp cellars
with chained moments of calm
We will perish now
On the great globe
only a big black hole will remain
leading directly
to Inferno
In the circle of old historians
the maps of my land
burn in their hands
dissolving into specs of soot
to be blown by the wind
God knows where
Another will inherit
our dark homes

Report of the lynx:

We are gone.
Others are heirs.

Translated by Gorjan Kostovski