Return from nowhere, grandmother, to the dawn of humble evenings. In this pitiful and small world, let’s go again, as before, to Denii.
Buckle up, the bridge is rising. We’re breaking the deadlock. In this pitiful and small world, Holy Week suddenly comes
The day smokes, the sun sets. The oil is cooked in the candle, as in the parable of the Mad Virgins. The Prince of the Look shows us the sign.
I follow you quietly, so I don’t get lost. Let it not be seen: to the yoke of my unworthiness, I harnessed faith and denial.
And I can’t wait to pass into a wake, in this tight and peltic world, wrapped in purple and zegge. Let’s go to Denii again. Come on Grandma…
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