I pick up withered flowers On a pale trail running out of ink Kept between strict paper pillows They fan out soon unveiling Their unnatural and baffling harmony I'm used to take on this old trick Six dumb dull eyes Witnesses and judges To my forgetfulness Six dumb dull eyes Witnesses and judges To my forgetfulness A wreath of purple veins Sleeping on the perfect drawing Of an ancient language you Wouldn't dare to interpret Six dumb dull eyes Witnesses and judges To my forgetfulness Six dumb dull eyes Witnesses and judges To my forgetfulness To my forgetfulness