Through the glass panes of my window, I see,
In the summer fieriness, labourers,
With heat pricking their figures.
Through the glass panes, I see,
The barren lands,
Covered with red volcanic sands.
Through the glasses, I see,
Trees, with no leaves,
Posing to be chopped off from the mosses.
I see,
Small hills in the rain,
Clouds overlooking the plains,
Through the window, I see the world in its grand.