To go again, behind the grave dug, our hideout.
Under the pool of blood, left going down, a tortoise's head is. Or, Under the pool of blood of hers, left going down, my glans is.
Brought his anger on, on her nerves getting, rodenticide to raise her hand.
Beyond that point, the sea spreads, to keep my staying in West Asia.
On chinese lantern plant, looking with indifference, an autumn darter flies through.