The blossoms often wither

(and will continue to do so)

Until we invent a language

That hangmen do not speak

Pain has the right to be expressed

With a voice that can pass through speechlessness

An articulation

(a joint between bodies and sentences)

When you want to speak for the colour of the sea bed

But the surface hinders

Swatter the precipitate and see how that will help

Until all the dissonant voices reach a pharyngeal consonant

Until we reach the realm of the pure sound

Ooh ooooooh don't you weep

I've lived more than I'm able to express