But the grass don't grow up,
the grass is sick, on the sky,
like a shadowed stick
who lick your golden face.

The plain full of grass
is a cubic plate
where the cows and the bells
bow for the milk.

But the grass don't run,
the grass irritate the light
with his green eyes,
the flags for your rain.

But the grass don't die,
the grass pray for the big child...
You!