My blood has been restored,
To its numinous swaying;

In my bedroom,
I hear a nymph's whisper,
Succumbing,
Before my thinness,

And there isn't any stone,
Getting into my shoe,
To make me walk lamely,
Towards an abandoned house;

A mouth tastes a hieroglyphic elixir,
In which the Pontifex writes his prophecy,
To pink kores,
And the Moon bathes herself,
In such a blue oil;

The body has been made,
To express a God's delights,

In which my ears draw,
A violet warmth,
To reflect my anima's words;

How much longer will we still crash our faces,
Into a drying lake? .-

For denying our inner song is,
Like scratching off a golden coin.