The atmosphere becomes red when,
I breathe the fragrance,
Of unlawful souls;
Never my body will be the sacrifice,
Of an ungrateful lamb;
Never a tear will be wept,
To appease a thorny rose;
It is said that,
The Glory of Dawn has arisen,
To lift up the spirits,
Whereas the faithful have reached,
Their place,
Among the Chosen One;
In which I\'ll never dance,
On broken ceiling,
Unless the trees give,
Their last screaming,
Around this town;
I will unsheathe my sword when,
Mocking specters separate,
Madness from Love;
Even between a virtue,
And a weakness;
A temple is willing,
To be born and grow,
Among the sadness.