My life is made of emotions, passions and horrors, `cause when you truly live you can even fall into deep pain My bed is made of small fresh leaves, moving slowly like a requiem My temple is made of dark gloomy trees, coming loose along a black oval path My chant is a desperate and irreverent elegy, composed in honour of those who have no reserve and fear Hordes of maleficent and false sins come back upon me. Shall I ever let my mind wander over the sad effect this filthy disease causes to my limbs and to my heart? I believe the persistence of the thin line of hope is worth this effort I believe its benefice can reach the intensity of full and perpetual delight Nothing is true, all is allowed In every dramatic situation there is a subtended element of absurdity and humor Every dogma contains something unhealthy and corrosive Our identities change every day with our memories We are not always what we really are, `cause we reinvent ourselves We change our skin and consistence And we lie with innocence, trusting our memory.
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