I, whose lips are stitched by the golden thread of silence, have words to say aloud
Words that may be as sweet as a music or as dark as a shadow avowed
I have the right to express myself in different genres, only stolen
For a creation molded in the hands of God I am too, however fallen
I have stumbled once, yet I stood twice
He who owns a dream must go beyond the rolling dice
'Tis a mystery how things go against my will
Will I surrender my body or will I hold on still?
I am a prisoner in a paradise made out of carbon: dull and dead
Who tries to struggle with defiance in search for one man's head
I own a sword of avidity in my pocket with a wound
I am a mushroom in a rusted diamond
