I don't remember my face,
I don't count wrinkles.
I have never created idols
For worshipping and hating them.
I keep terrible secrets
Of those who are gone.
When clay knocked their coffins
I was standing alone...

If I could see the absence of a sense...
If I could hear but not listen...
If I could know life is so empty...
curtain would drop earlier...

It feels like strings vibrating
Somewhere inside of me...
The source of my life pulsates
Deep in inner devouring horror...
torrent of words reflecting my thoughts
Falls by downpour unto me...
I behold a world of parallels
Painted by withering imagination...
Now I set free the warm of life
Through a door closed so long ago,
Now I get used to feel cold,
I escape this [bad word] ..