Purifying and putrefying is
The promise of passing days.
Instead of laurels, there is
Only funeral bouquets.
So I take my daily bread,
These paranoid limbs of mine,
These tears filled with sediment,
And I wash it down with wine.
Then, in my drunken stupor,
I feel my heart recouping,
But then... Yet even sooner,
My soul stops it's soothing.
You'll never fly blackbird,
With wings fettered aground.
Your song will go unheard;
A whimper in the crowd...
