An infant, a child, that sleeps by day
A woman grown that dreams away
All her dreams within a thought
Losing all she ever sought
Not her fault, not her choice
Not her words, not her voice
Not her image carved so deep
Into a youth deprived of sleep
Awoken years before her birth
Gained much wisdom but lost her mirth
Lost all that she could never find
Within the confines of her mind
A mind that does not yearn for life
But cries at night harassed by strife
I lend a hand and always fail
To shake her out of a dreamless sleep
I cry when she ignores her veil
When tears run down through craters deep
Perchance one day she'll see the light
Of sunshine gleaming through her smile
I just hope that 'fore her night
She'll realize her life's denial…
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Uspio sam se barem malo smiriti... Još uvijek sam bijesan, na sebe, na sve...
Toliko da niti ne pišem na engleskome.
Ova se tiče sweet child o' minea, koja još uvijek spava, progonjena noćnim morima kroz hodnike vlastite mašte...
Nisam bijesan na nju. Ili jesam? Ne bi se čudi, na sve sam ljut... na cijeli prokleti ljudski rod... Ali nisam. Ne, ne mogu biti ljut na nju.
Najradije bi nekoga zadavio.
Jesam li ljut zbog nje?