Millions of blind eyes, the snake's head on the coat of arms,
which, looking at the moon, silently howls a song,
over the city a knight-coachman pets a blind horse,
and below a candle burns from the Dante's comedy.
The chapel's got arched windows and with the cross promotes love,
the mouths are shut with screams and don't make a sound,
the flowers of fear, the wreaths of lies,
and instead of tears a narrow drizzle
on vomit on the picture,
The morning, that won't come, in vain awaits the yellow,
bay leafs to the sauce and a tear on the gun carriage,
from the ground the beast ascends, which with the stone face
and knowing how to kill birds, hugs you with the flame.
The chapel's got arched windows and with the cross promotes love,
the mouths are shut with screams and don't make a sound,
the flowers of fear, the wreaths of lies,
and instead of tears a narrow drizzle
on vomit on the picture,
on vomit on the picture,
on vomit on the picture ...