Elís, if the black bird calls in the dark wood,
This is your body claim.
your lips drink the cold of the blue spring.

That's when you are probably silently. Ancient legends
and dark interpretation of bird flight.

But your going to the night, with soft steps.
Rich and full of purple grapes hanging of the arms so sweet in the blue.

A thorn and brush sounds, but you are moving the eyes up
oh, how long since Elís, you are dead!.

On your temple's drips, dead too...
The last gold of the plain stars.

On your temple's drips, dead too...
The last gold of the plain stars.

Your body is a hyacinth in which a monk dips his wraps and fingers.

A black cold is our silence, But a witch and my animal
comes from time to time.

A gentle time eyelids heavily...

On your temple's drips, dead too...
The last gold of the plain stars.

On your temple's drips, dead too...
The last gold of the plain stars.

On your temple's drips, dead too...
The last gold of the plain stars.