Iam climbing the flight of stars with the book of the dead.
Iam counting the dates of the quick and the lost, like the beads 
Of the first angel. The green apples fall and the old swing.

Iam thrown in the wind rustling the trees and branches 
Counting the living their corpses light like new borns. 
Our experts are dead suspected of mad cow disease.

The dead are joyous dancing in the garden of diamonds. 
Waiting they call and throw flowers 
And eat words like yams and apples of the past.