I make poetry for the angels, who hum for peace on the topmost clouds.
I write these lines, which shall be enveloped and sent to the bright skies.
I am begging for rain to pour from above, for I do not want to spill water with my own tears.
My eyes have lived disgrace and disaster, death and blood. My ears have heard screams and many men's last words. My hands have felt the cold winter air which takes the young away. My knees have touched the ground before I asked you for a change. My mouth has opened to say the prayers which remain unheard today.
The angels do not cry as often as before, for when I look through the window it is never cloudy or pouring rain.
They must have understood like me that there is no solution to our despair.
Where are you Father? You created us to be flawed; don't you have something to repair?
Someone who remains silent before such disasters cannot be good.
I realized you ought not to worshiped, adoring you was our mistake.
Now they don't see you in the light anymore, they do not see you anywhere, it is too sore.
They are asking for you but I know they'll never find you.
God's dead, I pulled the trigger against my soul so that he couldn't take it away.
God's dead, I cut his wings so that he couldn't escape.
They want to burn me for treason, because they do not understand my vision.
God's dead, for it is everywhere, it is in us, but we are dying too.
They want to hang me for no reason, because they do not dare to open their eyes and learn the lesson. God's dead, and so am I, trust's dead and so are we, humanity's gone and so are our hearts.
God's dead and you all pulled the trigger.
