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