The crystals in the hive they make a bad couple
Neglecting the runners of barrel hunters
And the night where emerges this strange trouble
Algae meanders amongst the moving barrels
In order to give not the bearer a crossbow
That obsessed fruit by the pallor of the breast
A woman borrows of painters' colours' glow
And sings of murdered poet already deceased
Whatever the passions of these nights aberrant
And Ulysses' calls to sirens go errant
If the heavens locks are closed for always
And whatever ennui which catches rowers
If the streams of snow cover up the clamours
Of caverns which float in clarity of days
