My soul is grief. My soul is call
Because I am a bird picked off.
To death is doomed my wounded soul —
Soul wounded by the love.
My soul is grief. My soul is call.
Tell me what are meeting and send-off.
I tell you - there are hell and woe
and in the woe there's also love.
Mirages are close, distant — the streets.
Surprised she's smiling with the joy
of ignorance and youngster's greed,
of sultry flesh and airy ghost.
Mirages are close, distant — the streets
when she is standing in aureoles.
She never hears who calls and grieves —
she — flesh and airy ghost...