Quiet...
.. .
. . .
. . . there are feathers here.
The blue you use to wear me clean,
knows nothing of the day-stains
I wear.
They do not care.
I am purified by your blue,
deep, a shade beyond the glow of nostalgia.
Come to me again, in this copper fever dream,
rest your temple before me,
that I may make an offering unto you,
oh Queen.
I could only count so high.
That was my regret.
It's a secret I'll always tell.
So accept me, my sweet meats and myrhh,
toma mis lágrimas, y arreglame.