.
Dans le matin glacé Babd tord les étoffes
Les armes déjà sont aux mains des guerriers
La rivière n'est plus pure
Les destins sont scellés
Tout le jour Macha
Exlhalte les bras
Cueille les souffles
Riche au soir d'une moisson nouvelle
Un bouquet de tige soute.
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