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.