in this wide land of floating mountains
where clouds are heavier than rocks,
the wind's the only thing you'll hear,
the first, when born, and then the last.
and here, the end comes so much faster,
and souls turn all to heavy dust,
but life is like a storm of fire,
and lungs inhale and breathe
desire.

oh, how they turn, aerial dancers,
oh, how they burn...

sharp cubes flow into spheres
and objects turn to flesh

the merge of organic
and metal enforces
the birth of the hybrid,
removal of senses.
protected from ashes,
immune to the dust,
serene and eternal,
escaping
at last...