Oh this beautiful and naive world,
Who conquered my heart with passion
My mind pervades the burning cold,
This is some kind of strange and vile lust fashion.

There is nothing that cannot be an object of love,
Even your appearance can be made an idol for the lost.
On your grave trying to survive wounded dove,
Will be in further wander the world a ghost.

It hurts to look at their native planet's fresh wounds,
Her pain cannot be felt, but righteous anger can be known.
It is terrible to imagine how many parasites in it abounds,
Her suffering understands only came down from the stage to the bottle clown.