Santos

Under saints of my prayer
And I kneel in front of your face
And in that land my prayer burns
You are tied to a pillar of thirst
Riddled without reason and no faith
And that strange truth and that murky version
That disappears today, that disappears today.

From the mud, this flower of mine is born
And when it touches the air, it burns
And it falls dry and rolls at your feet
This consciousness is so illogical I know
That's where I drown, I find myself
And I am born again
A portrait of you, a landscape, a flower
These are days of fever.

While you watch crystals shattering me
Sunk so distant and more fleeting
I return to your root