On a rug underneath a burning bed
I dream in colour.
How chromatic are my thoughts tonight,
How technicolour my visions.
Never halt at the obstacle of darkness;
A torch of ignited starlight is your fire-forged weapon,
A knife of filtered sun your blade.

Oh, how pale these moonlight-frosted faces,
How rich these vibrant songs of transience.
Behind these golden eyes of heaven,
A hell-sung flame of vivid madness
Dies and flickers like the orange sun
In these skies of the late prismatic dawn.