The tongue licks the red petals of the multi-open rose; the tongue plows through a certain hidden button, and weaves breezy variations of light rhythms. And it licks, licks, licks, the hairy grotto lycorine, and the more it licks, the more active, it reaches the sky of heaven, amidst moans, amidst screams, bleating and roars of furious lions in the forest.