1. !

    Halt, my foot! For in this place

    a man loses touch with his senses.

  2. Sand, and the ruins of an edifice whose fallen

    heights search for its foundation.

  3. I turn my gaze about it, bewildered,

    and ask my day about its yesterday.

  4.  

    Did life once flow over it,

    and eyelids doze in its comfort,

  5.  

    and nightingales sing amid its good fortune,

    and fates run their course amid its ill fortune?

  6.   ؟

    Shall I make the rock speak of its carvers,

    and rouse the dead from his grave?

  7. The hooves of swift Time's steeds

    almost tell of its misery.

  8. So thorns do not suckle at its breast,

    nor do owls hoot in its head.

  9.  

    And those spiders are terrified,

    wanting to break free from its confinement.

  10. Indeed, destruction's hand has grown weary of it,

    and now fears the harm of touching it.

  11. Here illusion shakes off its phantoms,

    and death commits suicide in its despair.

Sol 6.1