I. Eventually we forgot your myth because I saw
nothing in it. An epic’s just opinion, and I couldn’t
find the rhythm, so I abandonned it. We all have
our own heroes, and it’s for you to write your own
ballads. You can’t count on me, I have so few
words for you.
II. You have a knack for the epic: everything
that comes out of your mouth is pure legend.
I jump right into your river Styx and know I’m
believing fairy tales again. What finally surprises
me is how far in I really am, neck deep and still
kicking. I have all this enthusiasm, only for
getting twisted up with you and your myth.
III. Tragedies are told for the tears at the
end, and I sing your song with guilt because
it doesn’t hurt enough. And when it does,
will I be satisfied? Take back your horses;
go tell Charon that Pluto and my pomegrante
are waiting.