Are all nights those surprised us are the strange? br Are all ways those we digging are no things more than illusions and worms nestle in the wound? br Are all treasures of-pearl and ruby of heart... of the brazier's essence of the spirit? br Not more than the stones lying on the path of from falling? ? br Our lost are those steps watchful us and the passion, as they said from the oldest of the old burns lovers br And we burned... but still not be irrigated from the wound of the nights... and not be deterred from hardened Daggers br Which we draw from there blades sugars or flowers br We delude ourselves that we are the witness and the martyrs br br We delude the palm holding water br That that eyes burst out for us br But we are the Illusionist br The steps does not lead.... and the end in the most beautiful trip of a lifetime for the unwary br Peace... peace on the unwaries br Eyes staring, and then seeing... br Then apply in the illusion.... in fear that inclines by shadow br And shadow tired them all these years br O immorality years br Write our history with blood and tears br And leave our bodies naked in the deserts of exile br And hunger.... and nibbling by the myths and impossible br O for the years..............