Oh my baby my little one
How romantic it could be
To climb the sky
Walking on a stair of stars,
that shining blue
And build a hamac of clouds
between the south and the north of the half-moon
And love you again and again again and again
I hang my head like a snowflake-man
in a burning sun
Because I’m my own ghost
I’m really dead, this time
I’m dead like the corpse
in their six feet on the graves
How romantic it could be to climb the sky
in a hamac made of clouds
A hamac made of clouds my little one