The ground is visible through the porthole,
How a son is sad about his mother, how a son is sad about his mother,
We are sad about the Earth, it is alone
And the stars nonetheless, and the stars nonetheless,
A little closer, but still just as cold,
And as in the hours of eclipse, and as in the hours of eclipse,
We are waiting for the light and we see earthly dreams,
And we don t dream about the roar of the cosmodrome,
Not this icy blue, but we dream of grass,
Grass near the house,
Green, green grass,