A thin howl from the dogs on guard.

Tonight still camped in the same place,

no-good vagabond orphans, we are

warming our hands at the bonfire.

A sullen look beneath the brows

from empty nights of far-fetched sleep.

The smoke is full of ruby floaters

whirled from flames that whistle and crack.

The waste says nothing. Silent, barbed,

a distant wind pursues the dust;

we sing with an evil dreariness

that’s chafing at our curling lips …

A thin howl from the dogs on guard.