The propitiatory smog stated its territory,
Through the lingering aged pores...

The skies, almost transparent
Vacant and without a single cloud...

Love like a needle in a pincushion is often kept...
It is forbidden to desire when your knot is tied...

Why is love so powerful and so unmerciful?
When it grasps us in its choking embrace...

Imagine a legion of warriors
Hidden but willing like a fire burning deep...