To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the snow
and to arrive at the snow
is to get down on all fours for twenty centuries and eat the grasses of the cemeteries.

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at woman,
woman who isn't afraid of light,
woman who kills two roosters in one second
light which isn't afraid of roosters,
and roosters who don't know how to sing on top of the snow.

But if the snow took the wrong heart,
the southern wind could very well arrive
and since the air cares nothing for groans,
we will have to get down on all fours again and eat the grasses of the cemeteries.

I saw two mournful wheatheads made of wax,
burying a countryside of volcanoes,
and I saw two insane little boys who wept as they leaned on a murderer's eyeballs.

But two, that is not a number!
All it is is an agony and its shadow,
it's only the guitar where love feels its discouragement,
It's only the demonstration of someone else's infinity
a castle raised around a dead man,
and the scourging of the new ressurection that will never end.

Dead people hate the number two,
but the number two makes women drop off to sleep,
and since women are afraid of light,
light shudders when it has to face the roosters,
and since all roosters know is how to fly over the snow,
we will have to get down on all fours and eat the grasses of the cemeteries forever.