For beauty had a possibility

Was it her fault or what

The lame finger is fresh

The sound is a loneliness

A faight like death

We are the flowers of enchantment

On the street of fairness

Time for forgetting

And deep forgetfulness

Your wishes of the sacred

Hold my hand now.

It was the life they knew

As if time has falcon wings

Your eye sharp as needles

Aiming at targets

You shoot out your missiles

I sense your tendencies

It eats the tail

Finally it is an abstraction

Too much paint

Not enough action

So I do something

Very strange and obvious

It is delicious.