Built me one of those things you call Masks, or the sun will burn my face
I want it made of steal and gold
and at midnight when my lover brings the moon, my Mask will be thrown under the bushes
I want it soft and smooth, for I would hold it for long
but when the sun is bigger one day, my mask will burn, burn, burn
and ashes will be my mask to hold, but we’ll make a land of moon, oh only a moon
and the sun will surround the fire as it burns.