A sometimes slaughtered impulse spoils in caressing
hydraulics which are torn into astral selection, more worn
love knows salvation. A tree must envy the god precisely
because its white flesh which was born to suffer the very silly rites is responsible?
But to justify that you are king, your
golden machine son sneaks around the steel wood of unrecognized grave depths
and produces crossing logs
in front of him with a joyful gear-likeness twisting desire Must a tree envy God
precisely because its white flesh, which was born to suffer
is responsible for the very silly rites?
Just what remains is my renunciation, conceived out of murderous
Innocence's womb As a castle lamb in a farce with feeling
I walk gently and as a mask for once
Now I have visions for the night and I'm even pale in the majority

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