The truth without lies I cannot dream,
Nor life without death can I sustain,
Only the solace that the world is creating,
With passion I will seek and obtain.
When time dies the eternal spirit lives,
In a dream which conceals a stolen life,
More amazing is a seed of truth,
And the first man’s desperate living bite.
But, confusion about men’s longing,
And the first mother of earthly desires,
As a fear of human formation,
Becoming decorated soul of the highest.
Whose street of childhood is hosting Freedom?
Who is walking us upon earthly ground?
What kind of an obsession speaks of its beauty?
Why mother’s milk poisons a God I’ve found?
We are running away from death,
So that we can be slaves to our own intentions,
And the sunrise of wisdom burns all illusions,
That reminds of an angel’s flying attentions.
Why is a forest of living filled with small souls?
Who defends the treasure of lost dreams?
Why are the thieves of logic becoming prophets?
While the poet’s tongue in emptiness screams.
That brings to question the tree of knowledge,
Primordial narration of forgiving,
And a first murder that tie’s us to a first sin,
It’s spilled blood and eternal bread of living.
Did the world bathe in the night of creation?
With the sheer skin of a man’s individuality,
The idea of justice the eternal man has devoured,
Yet, the small man lives in our reality.