It is no land that I yearn, not in my world anymore.
I stand on the ragged edge, the brink of everything
At once, and in spite of all. Nothing! No more!
Listen to the harps, and dwelled within the ring
Of the melodious words, to the quack,
The worthless, meaningless cry!
Of worthy and purposeful shot in the back
Then well wonder and mock, in very self amusing way
This interminable, preposterous creation of thee.
But I shall not bow to the creator, leave man alone,
‘Coz I, yearning to die, should one fine day, see
Him tyrannous in his kill, and yet, subtle in his sin!
In-existential in his will, placid in war! I shall see
To have lived through, what he could only imagine.
He, however kind should be in the next lie,
Shall not surpass the usefulness of a partial truth.
And you, my love, shall know only
A face obliged for victory and a voice unafraid,
Not the one sunk in despair or drunk on fear.
While you sing of me, and of the summer sun,
Know me, on the brink of everything. Now, here!
For I did not once walk ahead of de riguer
O for now, with all existent aggression until
And with an unthinkable ardor,
From the door to an infinite abyss, unchanged, unstill,
The same, from where I once fled, I set you free.
Feed them hunger, the hounds, I’m set to bleed
Ask of them to not come howling, silence is all I fancy!
Do not trouble your soul, for it is too a vicious one
Do not, with your songs of love, remind them of me
Let a selfish dissonance of fury and of pride run
Through and through until a moment of catharsis
Holds them numb and chokes on each breath.
The raggedy edge, the door to an infinite abyss
Awaiting every life in the city, every life worse than death!
I stand on the ragged edge, the brink of everything
At once, and in spite of all. Nothing! No more!
Listen to the harps, and dwelled within the ring
Of the melodious words, to the quack,
The worthless, meaningless cry!
Of worthy and purposeful shot in the back
Then well wonder and mock, in very self amusing way
This interminable, preposterous creation of thee.
But I shall not bow to the creator, leave man alone,
‘Coz I, yearning to die, should one fine day, see
Him tyrannous in his kill, and yet, subtle in his sin!
In-existential in his will, placid in war! I shall see
To have lived through, what he could only imagine.
He, however kind should be in the next lie,
Shall not surpass the usefulness of a partial truth.
And you, my love, shall know only
A face obliged for victory and a voice unafraid,
Not the one sunk in despair or drunk on fear.
While you sing of me, and of the summer sun,
Know me, on the brink of everything. Now, here!
For I did not once walk ahead of de riguer
O for now, with all existent aggression until
And with an unthinkable ardor,
From the door to an infinite abyss, unchanged, unstill,
The same, from where I once fled, I set you free.
Feed them hunger, the hounds, I’m set to bleed
Ask of them to not come howling, silence is all I fancy!
Do not trouble your soul, for it is too a vicious one
Do not, with your songs of love, remind them of me
Let a selfish dissonance of fury and of pride run
Through and through until a moment of catharsis
Holds them numb and chokes on each breath.
The raggedy edge, the door to an infinite abyss
Awaiting every life in the city, every life worse than death!
No comments:
Post a Comment