And the violins are burning, my love,
A rainless summer complains on our calloused hands.
The evening winds brew our tea by the wood fire, shyly kissing each other secretly.
The palms of your lips are warm,
And our young dreams are boiling like a pot of milk,
In the fear of all the overflowing wooden spoons in trust...
And the violins are burning, my love,
The most beautiful dreams and songs are turning into ashes in your burning eyes,
And in the heaven of your warm soul that flows from your thin neck to your heart like a green river...
And the violins are burning, my love,
A forest fire in my hand and my worthless neck,
All rootless loves are running away from the fire in fear,
Burning and burning, we are the only ones left with our own ashes in our hands...
And the violins are burning, my love,
Ashy notes fly in the skies, verses with the breath of the flames blowing into the sky...
10.17 Love was a fire.
An innocent who accepted his punishment, knowingly walking in the fires like a moth.
Love was a fire, just like a hell that blows on the fires hoping they will go out...
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