...And he was stairing at the dance flore

With the knife throut the machine.

Hunting her face made of subconsionseness

On the lost pavement of feeled horror.


Man without a sin

Is the one who must die.

The one who has not resembelance

And the one who should not live.


Whose hipe skinned this night`s adventure?

Vankwished desert were not beneith her feeth

Shall posses what hi is, fears not

Dying for shameness, or being reborn in more horrible way?


Stain, whitout a sin