Maybe me exported to all

The sun poured into the bosom of the sea, 
I'm gonna fall again to a new fantasy. 
I sing more songs in the wild, or 
Finnish summer songs of longing melody. 

Is not nothing on my way again. 
On the way there, where the squeeze 
the loneliness of the clamp. 

Maybe me exported to all, 
Simpson's hair, perhaps the forces 
blank weak stripped. 
I'm not born with gold spoon in his mouth, 
sponsoring a spoon still got the project sponsor. 
It is a spoon from the baby Jesus 
in swaddling clothes. 


I wrap myself in 
swaddling clothes, I'm like a caterpillar 
Before a butterfly to change. 
The wind blows me a new mourning cloak, 
then so be it, for tomorrow 
I am just waiting, and that I 
be clothed with wrappers.