The ones who continue to flee in the snow,
leaving behind them shrunken skies,
fragile, trembling walls,
are at the mercy of an unknown home
and the night’s pale moon.
Why are they driven to obliterate memories
and give up their nostalgia?
And the ashes of the dead, the altars,
what will they come to?
Turn toward recollection, bless
the trampled flowers, the water of the wells
from which you have drunk,
they will protect you through the exile you have undertaken:
among enchanted woods
and pitiless seasons.