I saw a lover in those shadows
a fusion in the wake of death
that took its rear
in tracks of sanctity
like bodies crushed
in piercing light
For we are theirs, and in its distance
there is a concord that demands
even the slightest of all ventures
to shed the world
and go along
Four pallid hands
on a wounded back
Your shrines are open eyes
Formed in the junction of disruption
In trembling archs of bleeding doves
By pallid hands of inner murder
caressing my cheek,
with profound smiles
Four pallid hands
on a wounded back
Your shrines are open eyes
in an empty room
When the chord of wound resounds
in everything
and the corpses turn inside
I know who comes
For a wounded back
Take the pallid hand
We are destroyed
Four pallid hands
on a wounded back
Your shrines are our open eyes
in an empty room
When the chord of wound resounds
in everything
and the corpses turn inside
I know that he comes