|
Flying lord, God of all times. |
|
Swept in rage as we left it. |
|
As its gold whips our minds. |
|
And fierce tongue scratches our eyes. |
|
Wake me from my sleep, |
|
And lead me gently (on my way) to hell. |
|
And it would rain in waves. |
|
Or in clouds of ashes. |
|
And wash off all taste. |
|
And creep into my spotless heart. |
|
My tears in a tin box. |
|
Bubbling, seething, covered with flies. |
|
Its grace leaves me tender. |
|
My eyes, wrapped in plastic. |
|
Swarming, curdling, wretched inside |
|
Its beauty makes me blind. |
|
The sky turns vaster. |
|
It rains in flesh. |
|
Its elegance wakes my slumber. |
|
And turns me into hate. |