How my mother treats me, sweeping out the golden straw.
Only can it tilt us and it's us it can when only,
deeply in the girls our clear feelings show the crimson heels.
Arrows point out the doubts of what has yet to come.
Mask of crimson, the pupils of her green the silver hair,
made up is fate, face is fair the which she burns it up.
Just as suddenly like the wind when he arrives with fans,
and as I climb up the carriage steps it tilts.
He moves away now it retracts and it then begins again.
Each movement of the hand and arm sweet violin.
I am shy the palace is a worm like my dark hole.
Where I was kept like sour wine it can't be slipped.
Pinks and yellows red the rose from back to front.
Chalice like my being climbs the wall of sweet lilacs.
Grace this state I shine and the coming stars and years,
I hope each revolution yet to come slides up as night
must bring me down to what I am and my guilt for what was done.
The sound draws near the sound it is I wish corrosiveness.
Two arms one second hand of the clock which never heard.