In this glass menagerie
woeful and laughing veils...

Did the wound exist
as an appetency...

They all rot and fade
these shoots of expectation...

Hell is sediment
Whatever resist burning...

Is it, a struggle of a feather
to survive its yanking and flouting...

The bride moon waltzes
with shadow nocturne groom of...

Is understanding, as ruthless as it is,
another version of satisfaction...

From the futile war
remains legions of mutilated hearts...

Living is not to learn
but it is to return...

Living is not to learn
but it is to return...

I'm so lost in me
that only in you I can...

O my beautiful butterfly
you are not so beautiful after all...