On top of some lips tasting pain like
The whisperer of dreams turns the wheel of symbols:
The last kiss of the shortsighted time on the tired eyes,
The last tears of idea, crucified on synonyms

To me is waist the labefaction on term of moment
Because
I know how to be tight sleep under the pillow,
Or the new druid of our places,
Anything...

Everything are to me blown off deaths on the altar,
Although when sleep lays on the crypt,
The word nestles in the term sacrifice
Forgetting to die on the lips
As one usually dies

Without taste of rebirth