In the crook of our arms
kings are dying.
Our chains get entangled
in their crowns
and, covered by our cries
their voices get forgotten.
In their tears
deep inside their eyes
the scent of grass
vanishes
One day, on the cold ground, their fur will sparkle
We shall free them
and the kings will come back.
Golden days will bloom then
And in our tears at last
deep inside our eyes
they will be there.