There's a place out
of time out
of space. Its lights are black,
its blacks are gilded.
Wine gushes from its fountains,
grains of sand are mountains.
Concept of gravity is useless,
tilling vanity is the mess in its pace.
There's no deep no weep no steep
slopes, no up no down neither wrong
nor right direction to take:
it's already been taken
All is warmth, all is dance.
And heartbeat's a call
for snow upon the ending fall.
What does love denies?
Nothing but its whys,
oh, nothing, nothing but its lies.