"A cold blade in the heart"
I feel it arrive, icy like a rain in the soul, cautious but definite in his stately advace, the memoirs accompany the his funereal arrival, the his cold hand, his warm touch a voice without sound that torments the mind, she arrives at from far away, from the remote abyss of the unconscious, Is it a dagger that pierces through the heart, freeing emotions and buried feelings, you feel the cold blade that tears your soul, in a escape of hostile but dear thoughts. I feel it arrive, icy like a rain in the soul, cautious but definite in his stately advace. Is a guilt to live? Is a guilt to die? Is a guilt to live? Is a guilt to die for ever? The conspiracy of silence of the future has announced from the solitude of the present, funereal and mystical separation from the reality: thing means to ask pardon for live? I am a misanthrope, the theater of the life puts in scene his actors, that recite the rhetorical fiction of the search of a sense to the sensitive and to the dark: but the true is inside of us, far from the conscience! Is a guilt to live? is a guilt to die for ever? This life is a chain, the acquaintance is the key: why wonder that sense has live, why break the silence of the eternity, peace in the soul doesn't exist, what a vague without a sense. Is a guilt to live? Is a guilt to die? Is a guilt to live? Is a guilt to die for ever? I regret of have not lived the life and the death, the guilt suffocates me, she chain me in the limbo of the doubt: alive in the bottom of a slush, I don't see light any answers. My sentence is the silence. I am a wandering spirit, endless, immortal, I am a spirit without soul, all and nothing. Alive in the utopia of power gather the essence, the synthesis of the spaces and of the times. I am a wandering spirit, endless, immortal, I am a spirit without soul, all and nothing. I feel it arrive, icy like a rain in the soul, cautious but definite in his stately advace. And like she has arrived disappears, leaves you alone. After have you forced between his coils, between the icy heat of his voice: this is the sound of melancholy!
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