Out of the empty, impregnated
Cockpit of reasoning — Kicked into
Your eyes from the pedestal of fear.
Guilt is the sin of guilt.

Yaps of thugs returned,
Volt-green bloodstream above the
Airwaves of forgotten songs.
Angels of the underworld.

Lunatics, in love with themselves,
Are hurtling over night-colored
Fields, while the silver fur of rabbits
Is reflecting screams of rage.