We were around eight when we first met,
With Innocence in eyes, unawareness of world,
Most of our day was with each other,
I thought we were inseparable.
Do you ever think of our bicycle rides?
Our first scooter ride,
Our first accident,
Our first fight,
Our long walks,
Our long drive with no destination,
when did it all turn into rumination?
My first real friend,
Things didn't really end well,
From strangers to best friends,
And from best friends to strangers,
Can't believe we lost it in haze.
Times when we didn't bury ourselves in phone,
Times when we climbed the terrace and fall on our own,
And then saw each other and start laughing,
With those bleeding elbows and knees,
I'll give my everything for that to be back,
But why is it all now in the memory rack,
Will things ever be where they were?
Will you ever be back here?
Do you ever think of me?
The secrets the gossips the lies,
Discovering new music and lose track of time.
A friend my parents trusted more than me,
Only for once let's set ourselves free,
Please comeback we'll climb again,
Hurt ourselves and laugh again,
Let's go for a long walk with no destination,
Let's take it out from our rumination.

Now I can still digest what my prodigal soul has swallowed; My petty, selfish, weary conscience makes me count the minutes of my existence on watchful, nightmarish nights, if the round executioner-moon appears, because it would be so good if holy peace could build a house in the courtyard of my aching, shattered heart, even for a fraction of a moment, like the basic formula of "nothing will go wrong!" I feel that the festering, infected World is too much for me, if old age comes, like the invented burden of becoming superfluous, perhaps it would be good if someone could look at me.

Now, not only the seasons - but also the wild Siberias of restless, manipulative souls - are pressing themselves into the depths of the caves of souls, because the desire for flattery can quickly dry up at the fountain of secret souls, just like telling the truth. Human personality should be preserved with a shadowless conscious indifference, as a kind of rebellious testimony of worldly things.

Perhaps it is better to simply step over the pitiful, pitiful traps of intentional insults, while the decade passes by. One has long felt the unwelcome thud of rheumatic hooves pounding over one's pitiful head, between the viscerally ingrained bones; like scraggly, earthly, drunken puppies, the members of the newest donkey generation bicker over each other's backs, taunting each other to their heart's content, for they have rarely thought about the secret nature of inner feelings, because with Nirvana-Nothing and with the assured consciousness of solitude one can only be in sole alliance, everything and everyone else being now totally excluded.