Your eyes get pale and grow, before mine
meanwhile, our souls flow
and biting our bodies,
you run, between fear and pleasure
Then you sail ...drowning in memories
that in convulsions you stop...oh Lord!
and you can't so you're afraid...ECSTASY!
And who but me? to know,
if the poison that stains your skin
is the same one that takes my soul
to the biggest pleasure
And who but you? to search,
for it among your mental woods,
THE SIGN, of the screams
that shake your gaze
and, you pray and ask for more YEAH!
Oh Lord...ooh Satan...
Let me, when I die, be no more than
a whisper from the wind
among the trees
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