Riding, Riding, Riding, through the day, 
through the night, through the day. 
Riding, riding, riding.  And courage has grown so tired, 
and longing so great.  There are no more mountains, 
hardly a tree.  Nothing dares to stand up.
Foreign huts squat thirstily at muddied wells.
Nowhere a tower.  And always the same picture.  
One finds that one has two eyes too many.  Only at night 
does one sometimes believe one knows the way.  
Perhaps at night we always return 
to the stretch of road that 
we gained so painfully under the foreign sun?  It may be. 
The sun is heavy, as it is during the depth of our summer.  
But it was summer when we took our leave. 
The dresses of the women shimmered for a long time among the green.
And now we are riding along.  So it must be Autumn.  
At least in the place where sad women know of us.