I saw myself in the bed of the lighting, sleeping to the wounds
My finger is diving in the seas of passion
Opening my hymns, singing the last thing I wrote about her
Going into the crazy world of her eyes
Climbing up to the dream
To her star which stayed in the night of her childhood desert
But when the monster sweeps the suns from the café of my blood
She leaves my soul without a shelter
And in my hand the reminds of the last stars
She travelled
(self-translation)
