Lyrics

At twilight, those who play in the water touch the moon on its waves. In bed, those who lay on the covers hallucinate their existence. A conversation with the slave who fought to save the work from a fire. At midnight, those who play in the dust grasp the wind by its hair. In emptiness, those who die drain their bodies into a bowl left beside the bed. At dawn, the tree that still grows gropes the world with its leaves