Merry, you may be
For I am the flesh in your tounge
Create to yourself, images of these
glass-eyed figures,
and expose to me, your skin -
whorish as ever
They speak to me, your pores, your veins,
in a rush of melancholy
In a stream of misantrophy

Remove the carpet, so I may be
united with the shades of these

Blind my eyes,
still I will see - presence, visuality
I grant you my pale hands,
still I will feel - shape, contoures

Please leave
In me you wont find any pity,
as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes -
the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me
So, please leave
In here you won??t find any pity
Tour kisses were as hell itself

Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge
Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present
"So, hereby I rape thee"