Paisagem. É suposto existir ao mesmo tempo um ruído branco muito forte

Sonic filtering, desagramatic messages –

I am the link that forges men

Hand-picking roots and iron-grass

Slime adjacent to sheep within my breath

Dragons, pseudo-marshlands

Insert the ribbon to earn your sacrifice

 

It’s the primeval times

 

She plants a navel and plastic flies, wings are

Gone

The landscape maddens anyone foolish enough to kiss it

Horizons are made of fictional promises, hands of giants

Lay dormant and rot as well as physical images

And [everything] is set

-         Murmurs catch the glimpses of oblivion.

 

It’s the primeval times

 

You open the container and living lava greets you in forbidden panic

Why did it run from it’s former self intrigues the wolves

Masters are reclaiming this charred vale

And the basins in my forehead refuse to let me born

It’s the

It can’t be

Rivers from the eyes, another proof

No it

Is it t

It’s

It can’t

The

 

Primeval times