To slit the grinning wounds
From childhood's seven moons
The palette stained with the ejaculated passions
(of forbidden, hedonistic colors...)

Strike from omnipotence; all-seer, all-deemer
And haunt my severed country with your
Dripping, secret games

You pick the unripe lilies
Deflored and peeled the bleeding petals
Made known to me
The grainy stains, the crimson lotus
Of the Black-Ash Inheritance
The semen feed of gods and masters

The worms still in me
Still a part of me
Racing out from leaking rooms
Swoop from broken lungs
To block the transmission
To put an end to the nomad years

Father
You are the
Dead god in me
Father
You are the
Dead god in me