Cloud, cloud

Cloud, cloud

It’s not a fair, It’s not a festival

It’s something else, It’s my own dreamland

It’s walking through the veil of a memory

Where no one feels the green streams but I

It’s the purity that my soul wants me above the flesh of trees

The outer circle of dew and root

And from primal to the modern winds

That pulsate through her tresses

We are perfect

I will hold you in the tallest of my trees

The greatest circle of veins

Above and through

And so far

I am Damián

The D in my name alike the green streams

I remember the fragrance, the mirror

I feel the cerrien days