There really is nothing more meaningful than to wander around,
In a park,
Amongst trees and flowers and some squirrels,
Some people here and there,
Some rays of sunlight piercing through the leaves and caressing the skin of those
Who wonder around, in a park, amongst trees and flowers and squirrels.
Some gentle rain makes it even more divinely peaceful,
But it may sadden and soak some of those
Who wonder around, in a park, amongst tall and short trees,
Colourful flowers and plainly green grass,
With squirrels jumping around and curious about these giants.
Nothing,
And everything, at the same time,
Are the feelings of those who wander around, in a park,
Stopping somewhere a moment to appreciate nature, bending somewhere else to hurt a flower.
They are able to tell everything to whomever they are walking with,
Those who wander around a park, without a clear destination,
Conscious that they will have to cross a gate to get out
And they will lose every bit of pleasure gained throughout such walk.
Many people kiss in parks,
And lay on the grass,
As if it were a private room, with invisible wall,
Or thinking that no-one else wanders around,
In a park, looking for happiness and tranquillity.

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.

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.

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 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.

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?

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

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.