Wrapped like a present
I'm scared of what's inside
I'm in your arms
But what's in my heart?

I have no soul to make use of my spirit.
I have no love to make use of my body.
I have no dreams to make use of my heart.  
I have no paths to make use of my legs.
I have no depth to make use of my arms.  
I have no words to make use of my breath.
I have no gardens to make use of my nose.
I have no kitchen to make use of my tongue.
I have no thunder to make use of my ears.
I have no imagination to make use of my eyes.
I have no needles to make use of my hands.

I have no me to make use of the world.

His arms wrap around
My fragile and worn-out soul
So that I can rest.

⠠⠊⠀⠎⠇⠑⠑⠏⠀⠾⠀⠍⠽⠀⠙⠑⠍⠕⠝⠎⠀
⠮⠀⠥⠝⠂⠎⠊⠰⠎⠀⠎⠑⠞⠞⠇⠑⠎⠀
⠔⠀⠮⠀⠏⠊⠞⠀
⠁⠃⠯⠐⠕⠙⠀⠃⠽⠀⠍⠽⠀⠁⠝­⠛⠑⠇⠎⠀
⠠⠊⠀⠏⠻⠋⠑⠉⠞⠫⠀⠎⠑⠇⠋⠀⠇⠕⠁⠹⠬⠀
⠔⠀⠮⠀⠎⠁⠝⠉⠞⠊⠞⠥⠙⠑⠀⠷⠀⠑⠍⠏⠞⠊⠰⠎⠀
⠑⠍⠏⠁⠹⠽⠀⠎⠑⠞­⠎⠀⠔⠀
⠱⠑⠝⠀⠊⠀⠹⠔⠅⠀⠷⠀⠽⠀
⠠⠊⠀⠝⠐⠑⠀⠏⠇⠁⠝⠝⠫⠀⠿⠀⠮⠀⠏⠁⠔
⠞⠕⠀⠆⠀⠎⠑⠒⠙⠀⠓⠯⠀

Close
Far
Warm breath
Cold air burning beneath southern stars

Quiet
Noise
A comforting voice
In ears at last a presence being, my present

Arms still raise goosebumps
Though your stare I often see
Paralyzing blues

The factory was a dual role one
It was a great division of labour
And of resources making double the profit

On a Monday it made polonium
And on a Tuesday it made baby milk
And on a Wednesday it made anthrax
And on a Thursday it made flour
And on a Friday it made cyanide
And on a Saturday it made sugar
And on a Sunday it made strychnine

This was a factory of war and peace
It depended on the day
It was worked in three shifts
7 days a week
365 days a year
Feeding nation’s civilians
And poisoning the enemies