...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