"...One last perfect verse
Is still the same old song
Oh, Christ, how I hate what I have become"
When the colours of love will completely turn gray,
'Twill beget the ennui and some kind of dismay
Unafraid of the dark I will not be the one
Who commits suicide for the feelings undone
But the art of detachment is hard to acquire
Once again I'll be watching the funeral pyre
Once again I will mourn for the truth I can't get
And remember my past with the bitter regret
At the end of the road I will bow to the shrine
But its keepers are dead, none will send me a sign
How much grief's yet to bear? How much evil's to face?
It is not fear of mine but of all human race
In our fleeting existence we hanker for peace
But the outness brings only distress and decease
Our pained souls are o'erwhelmed by the woe and the ire
And the more we try live free, the more we expire
The Art Of Detachment the prophecy 07. 03. 08
© Copyright: Алексей Сарычев Лирика, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114073007853
Свидетельство о публикации №114073007853
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