los lobos del sol, the lyricism of nonsense (FW 190)

Someone sliced this city in geared flame and left a swath of orange blood,
All the slickness on the streets in the debt of drugs and sex that gluttons collect
Like a whirling bracelet upon the arm of the baron’s dominde.

With the edge of fey fate we slipped the knife through the ends until they met
With a bridge of gleaming steel over the waters of shoals.
With the debts of old friends, we remarked on how easily memories become forlorn.

To this debt, we raise our best, we toast when our minds are wet with the lucid fumes of alcohol’s loans.

Hoy poder la tierra en un traje de azul, los firmas son regales en la piscina de tus suenos, la habitad es un major contenta y soy un major. Con el amor es possible para personas viaje con los pajaros y la major paloma de tus brazos. Un boleto de me historia es un libro de me via. Es la verdad, la muerte es una via del destrurian los peligrosos. Y con un cuchillo de nosotros somos angeles de la noche. Fortuna es marveloso para ti, ye la gente es su novia, con los fuegos artifices.

With rising strands of reflections we puzzle out the sun, with strands of desires fulfillment we descend upon the power of our blood unnoticed but in times of loss and want, where we are yours. We collect all the mess of the sickness swimming in trees, we excempt spiritual debts on the basis of compassion and need.

Hoy poder la playa del mundo en un carafe de naranja por tus amorres. Hoy poder una miraculo en los curios por tus santo de proteccion.

Yo ya major…

With engines of night we travel in repose like a sailor guided by his nose through the shifting whirlwinds of storms, with sails of daylight we gather our weapons of the spirit and search out banknotes to serve as our soul’s cloak.

En la casa de luna, un mujer de cinema no tiene la verdad porque es una triste soledad.
Los ciuadeds no tienen las coches de la noche, no tienen los guerreros de la negro, solamente los guerroes con los caballos de la luz.

In the engine, our thoughts are scrambled with the gears sickening speech. We adapt, and turn our minds to rocks and fires that have no measure of weight or heat.

Los avions del azur estan miserables de los peliculas y no tienen la amor.

The airplanes of blue, miserable as motion pictures, and they don’t have love.

In the dentistry of mercy, our stone teeth look unnerving, but it is how we survived. In the hospital of love, our claws scuttle like undeserving women across the ladders of social climbing, and perhaps this too is love. But in the ends, our knifes will mend all the sickness that crept through this dream, to be sent to the end means to live like you want by your seams.

On the 14th of December, we forgot to remember, on the 9th of September, the war surrendered and the lyrics of this song changed back to the pale embers that had begun in a fire of old parchment marked by old lore.

Tu estas una dio, la produccion de evolutiones y muchas muchas anos. Tu eres bonita y muy felicidad de los viajes y los jovens de la tierra. Las almas de amadura son corozons del batalles. Yo ya mejor!

Wilt them out until there is only spirit and form for the cowardice in their looks that stole and have torn your lover's desire as if from a supermarket aisle. You are a goddess amid rotting logs...