At times, the sky is white, And the mounts are purple. I rise, the Sun laughs that I don’t see the hurdle, The snake on my shoulder, Way ahead, the turtle, Lest the sky’d turn purple, The mounts would be white.

The distance between our fingers keeps increasing. I can’t feel that last embrace anymore.

We said goodbye on a train station platform, and I’ve never came back from the war that had since then started in my head.

Of course it couldn’t be, but we were made for each other — and it’s a bad remake of that bloody love story from that English lad again.

But lo, I’ve made something of that. Remember all the reasons, I paid no heed to that. We were not from the same culture, father would not give his blessing, you could not fight and so you left me. I took a house in your homeland — and that’s petty: I made hearts melt with the fire you let me.

‘Cause after you it was empty, a void many got lost in ; searching for something I think will not ring for another ting.

Before you there was and after you there has been. The snake tells me to drown in the violets, you see. When I turn to the sky, I feel so cold in the mount; but your fingers are far, I cannot feel your embrace. The turtle ahead, I did not see the hurdle. The Sun is laughing at me: let the mounts be purple.