I can feel time growing red on my handsnHowling its way through the bodynnThose who cross the river, they resist to consentnThe games we play through the summernnRising from the bull-blistered mountains of laughternI say we drag them through silencennI can feel time growing red on my handsnHowling its way through my bodynnThe hysterical roarnIt still serves me finenBleda: this horse will not touch the groundnAnd I’ll keep my hands asidennI can feel time growing red on my handsnHowling its way through the bodynnThose who cross the river, they resist to consentnThe games we play through the summernnThe hysterical roarnIt still serves me finenBleda: this horse will not touch the groundnAnd I’ll keep my hands asidenBleda: this horse nWill never touch the groundnThe hysterical roar it still serves me finenSo I’ll keep my hands asidennIn a sole second winter is made nThe gentle night is shredded into warnAnd before the sun saves usnA new question is raisednFor the maze, it ends herenAnd here starts the mazen