In The Garden I Will Die. In

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them.

Green How I Love You Green. Green Wind. Green Boughs. The Ship On The Sea And The Horse On The Mountain.

The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. The Goblets Of Dawn Are Smashed. The Weeping Of The Guitar Begins. Useless To Silence It. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps Monotonously As Water Weeps As The Wind Weeps Over Snowfields. Impossible To Silence It. It Weeps For Distant Things. Hot Southern Sands Yearning For White Camellias. Weeps Arrow Without Target Evening Without Morning And The First Dead Bird On The Branch. Oh, Guitar! Heart Mortally Wounded By Five Swords.

Relish The Fresh Landscape Of My Wound, Break Rushes And Delicate Rivulets, Drink Blood Poured On Honeyed Thigh.

We're All Like The Little Sailor. From The Harbors We Hear The Strains Of Accordions And The Murky Soapy Noises Of The Docks, From The Mountains We Receive The Dish Of Silence That The Shepherds Eat, But We Don't Hear More Than Our Own Distances. And What Distances Without End And Without Doors And Without Mountains!