What am I?
Am I the boy gazing at the rose, or the rose being gazed at?
Am I the body in the stream, or the flow storming down?
Am I the start of the infinite worlds or the end of the only one?
Those questions, tainted my innermost pysche with doom and treachery, inflexions of my latent madness. Mad is he who knows he es bound by fate, he realizes truth inside destiny, we are nothing but puppets of eternity, not owners even of ourselves. Madness is the cure of letting loose the chains of misery called sanity. The knowledge of slavery is the key to freedom.
Only great men are mad, may be it's not my call.
I'll be relieved from this cross, from this weight, in your wings my dear. In your wings.
My body dirty, rotten, son of causality and casuality. Virgin is my spirit as before the first of days. Bow, your head on my shoes, your lips kissing, your hair falling. Realize yourself so you never again serve anyone, until you do... bow down and lick my boots.
The old man thought and spoke in suck ways, and he had a profound trust in this young girl. She seemed like his passed away daughter, but then again, much stronger. She was born in the same day Lizzy (his daughter died) throwing in his face the irony, mocking on the ancient bastard.
Her death set my free... I am old (but not venerable) and I want to be chained again.
That is one of a thousand things that do not keep me awake at night.
Such was the scene, the bearded one with gold hair at his feet, and an atempt being born in a knife and a hand.
Am I the boy gazing at the rose, or the rose being gazed at?
Am I the body in the stream, or the flow storming down?
Am I the start of the infinite worlds or the end of the only one?
Those questions, tainted my innermost pysche with doom and treachery, inflexions of my latent madness. Mad is he who knows he es bound by fate, he realizes truth inside destiny, we are nothing but puppets of eternity, not owners even of ourselves. Madness is the cure of letting loose the chains of misery called sanity. The knowledge of slavery is the key to freedom.
Only great men are mad, may be it's not my call.
I'll be relieved from this cross, from this weight, in your wings my dear. In your wings.
My body dirty, rotten, son of causality and casuality. Virgin is my spirit as before the first of days. Bow, your head on my shoes, your lips kissing, your hair falling. Realize yourself so you never again serve anyone, until you do... bow down and lick my boots.
The old man thought and spoke in suck ways, and he had a profound trust in this young girl. She seemed like his passed away daughter, but then again, much stronger. She was born in the same day Lizzy (his daughter died) throwing in his face the irony, mocking on the ancient bastard.
Her death set my free... I am old (but not venerable) and I want to be chained again.
That is one of a thousand things that do not keep me awake at night.
Such was the scene, the bearded one with gold hair at his feet, and an atempt being born in a knife and a hand.
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