Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

（Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.）

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor

Sewing a shroud for a journey

By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die， the sensual strut begun，

With my red veins full of money，

In the final direction of the elementary town

I advance as long as forever is.