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My life is made of emotions, passions and horrors, 'cause when you truly live you can even fall into deep pain |
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My bed is made of small fresh leaves, moving slowly like a requiem |
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My temple is made of dark gloomy trees, coming loose along a black oval path |
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My chant is a desperate and irreverent elegy, composed in honour of those who have no reserve and fear |
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Hordes of maleficent and false sins come back upon me. |
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Shall I ever let my mind wander over the sad effect this filthy disease causes to my limbs and to my heart? |
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I believe the persistence of the thin line of hope is worth this effort |
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I believe its benefice can reach the intensity of full and perpetual delight |
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Nothing is true, all is allowed |
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In every dramatic situation there is a subtended element of absurdity and humor |
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Every dogma contains something unhealthy and corrosive |
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Our identities change every day with our memories |
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We are not always what we really are, 'cause we reinvent ourselves |
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We change our skin and consistence |
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And we lie with innocence, trusting our memory. |
