The enchantress combs her long hair.
Stiff oaks proudly stand
in abandoned purple gardens,
rich houses in ruins.
Just a few cats move between what's left of it.
Whole areas in soft whisperings,
ghosts that stray among the bushes.
It is quite cold out there,
it looks like February and it is all in rags-
an old lady who used to sell cinnamon cookies.
Above the city a deep catacomb lies
which twinkles with its cattish eyes,
a coal black blanket warms your thoughts:
"There never will be any ending."
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