Bite my neck and set me free, unearthly spirit, heavenly,
the bonds of lust and chivalry, a woman's mocking industry,
the man who exhales symphonies.
Breathe once more, let autumn set the undertone
for windy upper mountain roads.
Set fire to the Hills and watch Olympus burn to grounds below,
a godly home away from home.
I don't want to be alone.

I saw you as a cloud of nighttime visions
and we'd speak of our prisons and our images of the proper mainstream.
Conversation, utter cry of serpents in the tears,
basking glory of temptation of removing our ears,
beating hearts and non-believers praying in the streets, do you hear?

Upon my grave no light shall free the heathen from her heavy heart,
burdened with the questions of how swiftly to depart
from your world of your creation, my land of the free, simple song and irony.
I speak from the head not from the heart and think with my hands
and feel with everything I cannot see, your only precious gift to me.

Let us walk through meadows but never mocking those who stretch their arms above their heads
to bask in their imagination.
You are of mine as they are of you, a million salvaged dreams and miracles subdued
by the magic of feeling as if you're there at all.