Let the mystery dance,
At the top of your breast!
Whereas the angels roar,
And the cross leans on your soul!
Let the moon awake,
On you head!
Whereas your eyes glow,
And your skin shapes your sword!
Even the slightest needle would
Go across your fingers,
And write a prophecy,
On the walls of your bedroom,
In which no disciple will blaspheme,
To the storm;
May Temptation be your servant when,
Every day becomes red;
May your tears be your salvation when,
Every song gets,
Your priesthood's grace,
For a caress cannot be revealed,
If it does not cleanse,
The wind's dirt!