Outside, there is a moon.
It's nothing more than a moon,
But people look at it;
They compose songs for it.

I know not of the moon.
I know the melody of the angels
And the fiery sermon
of the final wind.

I know how to scream in the void
Until the dawn of the day,
When death, stripped naked,
Rests within my silhouette.

Outside, there is a moon,
But I know not of the moon.
I know the magical
clamour of the vowels.

And I know how to not weep,
When reality waltz alongside me,
Cloaked in the ivory ashes,
Mocking my sick dreams.