I think there is an end
somewhere along the
tears and the weeping walls
of time. Orpheus lyre cannot play
here, and love will only bring
us grief as we do it in hell.
Listen, the deers will not
play here, along this cold
madness, a hole in the mountainwall.
From where I enter, with my white dress
of angels. Here the angels are,
eyes closed, cherubs and
of lilac stone. He breathes not,
so put him in the crib and let him
pull his lasst breath of thirst and
plague, He is near. Curse be he
who waits here, underneath the bed.
Angels weep and Maid Mary is alone,
crying dead tears over Jesus and the
jupiter planet. He who loves,
me and the lioness Death here
he sings quietly. And he cannot
bring the men near again.
From the haunted hut.
She wraps her wings around me,
and breathes sanguine heartts
over me.
Let it be.
If one peson alone knows the
truth.