| She lives within a soft rime world |
| Where the sun only appears far behind the mountains |
| She´s the hostess of a warm and humid cave |
| Constantly open to coldness |
| Perennial plant bred in manure |
| She´s infested by the old stench of the past |
| A wildflower growing in concrete |
| Withered petals that foreshadow the end of the trip |
| The flame in the sky dies behind the village |
| Pink and yellow clouds fade into the night |
| On the living room table snow mound, the throne |
| In her mind winter has reborn |
| Dressed in her anesthetic armor |
| She can play what they want |
| The spanks, the insults, a flood of degradation |
| Perverted cocktails that hoist him to the 7th sky |
| I wear a thousand masks but none of them are mine |
| Offering myself to strangers in the night |
| Caresses like salt on open wounds |
| The chronicles of sorrow that only result in pain |
| When she finds herself alone, within herself |
| The emptiness echoes like the wind at the bottom of a lost valley |
| Astray in the middle of a world out of reach |
| Only her sadness vibrates her broken heart |
| 4-inch heels with a skirt wriggling on her hips |
| She´s without a doubt the queen of the street |
| Delivering a majestic parade on the sidewalk of paradise |
| She offers herself to the hungriest beasts of the forest |
| With her feline claws and eyes |
| She makes the vultures skew at her |
| She releases a smell of fresh meat |
| That awakens the instinct of muzzled wolves along their path |
| Your existence, your life erodes this way |
| Like a cliff at the edge of a violent sea |
| And if one of these springs you don´t wake up |
| It would be the beginning of an eternal winter |