Like if we came from the mountains and came down in the valley
And found our tribesmen slaughtered
And you are saying i simply do not care about politics
I care about the changing of the seasons
And the song of the birds.
I can lie and say:
I have learned to live with my solitude.
I have done violence to myself in wanting to jump
Out of this world.
And i will not roll in the blood and the mud,
Backbreaking work for babies not yet born,
Toil for millions in the new dawn.
I will find a corner in which my spit
Will become like a river
And my curses (fucks and shits)
A rich compost heap
On which to grow
Bitter silver flowers of hate.
Razorsharp, the petals
Of brilliant metal.
Grit in the eye of the demi-god
Burning a sacrifice to the immortal
Prometheus.
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