|
Rome |
|
the joys of stealth |
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when we lie white in our mourning slumber |
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when our skin smells of sun |
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the filthy mass that moves and talks |
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is swept into the sea, is gone |
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when we are naked, when we're on fire |
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when we render secret tribute to |
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this pain we fake, this blue desire |
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love is still our craving and our shame |
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when they come to me |
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laughing and howling |
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when they thrust their anguish into me |
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and lick the blood as it runs down |
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they don't give place to youthful bloom |
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not then, not now |
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in the leaves of blood, in the life of the tribe |
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i am dead to all the world |
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except when the noises sleep or hide |
