If we're in our eighty's
And you thought of me
Relax and don't worry
Days have passed of me being weary

Now I'm floating, not in heaven
Nor purgatory and hell even
I'm one of the stars which the night livens
Smiling like when I was eleven.

A friend asked, “Where would you like to be buried when you die?”
While he looked to the ground
My eyes lingered upon the sky—
“The verdant grass makes me itch
While the bluest ocean is too deep...
The void meanwhile is quiet and without any life...
Isn't it perfect place to rest after I die?”
He laughed and said, ”That's crazy!”
And I thought:

You are the crazy
To live in this world of weary
And not escape, but instead be buried—
In my death I want to be free.

Why was it so easy
To imagine myself
Falling in love
To your smiles,
Yet so hard
To see myself
Right there standing
Next to your side.

In the midst of jolly red
I alone stood bit distant,
Aloof, and somewhat lonely

Merry is just an arms reach
Yet that gap felt like light-years
Among the crowd, I'm not one

I chose to let the cold seep
It built me my apathy
Supressing both joy and tears

But what sealed can be unsealed,
A hint of warm, long lost love
And I'll wish for stars collide.

That dark desire clouds your mind
It whispers something profane
Asking for pleasure that bind
Filthy corruption and bane.

When the dream ends
And the dreamer dies
Would the world stop to mourn
Or would it continue its revolution;

With neither an impressive gun salute
Nor just a simple cry of sadness
How long until the warrior's song fade
Into the reality's cruel silence;

When the dreamer dies
He dreams of an eternal edifice.