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I feel as if |
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I have been buried alive |
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For the best part of five hundred years |
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My body encased in a mountain of waste |
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Until one day my face reappears **** bends with the years that it spends |
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In positions tormenting my soul |
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But now they are free to emancipate me |
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From the celibacy of the soul |
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So turn in your grave |
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Hold back the incoming rain **** wind in my face like the linen and lace |
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Are surrounding **** like **** |
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Fresh air in my lungs **** sharing his songs **** through the grass |
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New blood in my veins like |
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Red Indian rain |
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Stripping us of all shame we possess |
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With tears in my eyes (and with anguish) |
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I cry: "I was free all the time, I confess!" |
