| Her wingless arms are moving lines
|
| Circling skies and wandering signs
|
| Sensual trees are worrisome
|
| Blessed is he that rests this song
|
| She moves her arms to see the clouds
|
| But gone is he and sorrow bound
|
| Faced with the season of serpents
|
| Damned by the gods; |
| by her words
|
| She mingles fiery silk and seeds
|
| To grow that weed and lose the clown
|
| Demons rise and fill the coat, put on his hat
|
| And walk around
|
| Faced with the season of serpents
|
| Damned by the gods; |
| by her words
|
| Sing, oh soulless yearling and beg
|
| Beg that shimmering star
|
| To clean your knife and mend that golden crown
|
| The weaver and I spun the wheel
|
| Picked the loom and waited high
|
| Slowly feeling that Northern breeze
|
| The taste that we’ll defend this time!
|
| Loose the heart that beating beast and
|
| Move your hips across the ground
|
| Faced with a reason to circumvent
|
| The old styles and words
|
| Sing, oh soulless yearling and beg
|
| Beg that shimmering star
|
| Sing, oh soulless seer and beg
|
| Beg that painted eye
|
| To clean your knife and mend that snake-like tongue
|
| A page from a book, a word from her eyes
|
| The beat of her wings… what's left of this line |