Golden are my hands
the ice melted with the night
trough the crystal sunshine heat
In the air season's steam
blast my shadow, blessed my soul
the hallway's narrow as you walk
Dry throat drunken lullabies
Your pale blue eyes
and that sweet red wine
It's not the beat, is the heat.
It's not your poem, are your legs.
It's not the sand, are the bedlinen sheets.
In my golden hands
no Los lost,
no creation mistery.
Hear a tiny spider singing a song
with the melody of dreams
and death of a crow