A translation of a poem originally written in hebrew. There
are some changes, but the intention is the same.

Perfect shape, sharp and clean,
cuts the light so straight and thin,
even the stitches can't be seen.

Vibrating quickly, singing high,
let it all out, reach the sky
through your pale, sharp crystal eyes.

Her vains are wires of silver and gold,
she'll always be perfect, she'll never grow old.
Her insides grow so infinitely cold.