Bitter soft rhythm in her head, that flows with the mind,
Burning stars and spining fireflies haunt daily laiziness. 
Nothing to do, nothing to dare,
her reckless hair flows back in the air.

But still the fair movement of them,

back in the shed,
over on the field,
quite slowly on the routes,
they travel with much content.

Much to do, and much to see,
they play
with irony.
He's the only one to be,
he's the only one to know.