Buna Grioche
When madness reigns in this fire feastand clarity does not come,I leave it up to my instincts;Grieve in sadness of the sun, grieve in sadness of the sun, breathe in madness of the sun...No longer that moment,no longer that time;not even very close to that frame of mind.I had a million sons, life carried them all off;they went to sea - they are life harbours lost.Fuzzy is the imageof my Libertine day;from certainty to loss,far from certain dismay.