The path is dust,
and gravel,
and packed dirt,
and the grey smears it
draws onto the hair,
and from the star trail
it's got a jewel
bound to a rock,
and the feathers of desire
from the wings of Pēgasī.
The path is a whip,
it's evil,
like a street lady.
It's got tags in the hands,
and a tin foil at the waist,
and from its eyes the lust is shinning,
when into the unknown it throws
two fragile branches
of the blood-red gladiī.
Sergeant, the sand is white
like the arms of Danielle,
wait a moment!
My eyes have seen
that ancient
moment of abandon.
Sergeant! They will salute
and we'll be initiated.
Morituri te salutant,
morituri te salutant.
Down the road
I went,
where on the ground whirls
and the sand swirls
the wing of dove,
and for me was the march played
by the sounds of the artillery,
which provide the comfort,
and raise the feathers
which eradicate.
The path is tar and dust,
and packed dirt.
A brass bee
from the Werwolf.
A rusty gun -
my chap,
and the hundred years old dirt
and the enormous
white clouds.
Sergeant,
the sand is white
like the arms of Danielle,
wait a moment!
My eyes have seen
that ancient
moment of abandon.
Sergeant! They will salute
and we'll be initiated.
Morituri te salutant,
morituri te salutant.