Our animal is moving in the forest.
It never looks at you.
It never looks at me.
It can hear,
But it will never listen.
It's made of heavy hearts and eerie whistles.
It's bound to move in fear of intuition,
Our animal is in the forest of submission;
Submission in the land of fauns and flowers
In animals and claustrophobic sounds.
Submission in the weather,
In the rainy day;
Submission is oppression in a way.