We have lost the mark of time
the honour that makes of a good man
a soldier of fate;
we live as though we need not wait
as though we need not live
as though we need not fight
every moment
of a short lifetime
of sorrow and gentle tenderness
caressing the child's cheek
whilst the steel pierces his young heart
ignorant of the two-faced Goddess who claims
life
after life,
as the divine gift of consumed pyre whose ashes are swept
by foreign winds of a far away storm.

To be conscious and aware,
what a greater gesture of suicide,
what an alternative to happiness,
what a solution to meaningfulness.
To be conscious and aware,
the act of killing a magical existence,
the purpose of morose joy,
a waste of time.

Is this music the alternative to those
words
that chase my mind and my lonely soul,
that leave no time to the self,
that **** the tedious moments of boredom?
Are those notes the alternative,
the golden gift of the Gods
to us mortal geniuses?
Are we mortal or just deaf?

Plaintive is the language of emotions.
Sequences of wretched listless feelings come along
The coarse course of love.
Being in love with the idea of loving,
That is truly the silliest disgrace,
As we ridicule our personages
And we hurt our hearts.

Is it not true, that when you feel the oppression,
In that very moment, you also feel the happiness of your forgone
Freedom;
For we do not want to be sovereign over our fate,
As much as we want to be independent in our faiths.
Is it not wonderful, the magnificence of oppression,
Some unwanted and despised Goddess, whose ******* we avoid
By words, and pursue by acts.
Is it not sad, to see us fighting for our freedom
by dismissing our liberator, and by slaughtering our allies,
Simply because we do not know their faces.
Is it not wrong, to be ignorant of our inner selves,
And yet persevering in pursuing ends,
Which we should know are mere illusions.
It is futile to pursue freedom, as a solution to a need,
For it is oppression the only cure to an ignorant uncertainty,
And the only desire of a free individual.

Let us waste the time we were gifted,
Let us joy of the useless notion of time,
Let us pray for a faster death
For we want that which we know
And we loath the possibility of unknown.
Let us imagine, for a second,
That life is more than time, as though
Alone we were not,
But in company of wasteful emotions
We were squandering the time we were doomed with.
For it is an endless awaiting,
That every single infinite second of our time,
Slowly arrives, and leaves quickly as a wasted moment,
In which we feel joyful of being closer to life, and its fleeting torture
Of being immortal for a too long duration.

Is there pain for those who feel everything,
Or is it a gift for those scared of feeling anything?