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It's a vagrant drug of brain.
It's a cold grimace of hope.
And a smell of parental death in the cold corners.
It's a throbbing of solitude in the temples.
But I thirst for your dose
I sell months of my life to demons,
Holding out hope to phase out the one I knew in the past life.

We all are the addicts of a hormone, the puppets of Elohim.
We search for the nausea erasing the ego like heroin does.
So wreck the remains of my life,
While I'll be calmly watching the corpse of my ego.

A daylight stalker of ruin, desiring to rape the pain
A silent medium of all illusions
A writer of belated drafts of life.
Mockery of ghosts and gods
And silent indifference of demons.

The masks of a narcotic that straggles in brain,
That activates whenever it wants,
Yawning like abysses of the subtle world.

Where the hope and the passion are only a forgery,
An oxytocin ruse of Sansara's conveyor.
As if there you pray, you bow your knees
Only before the tumbleweed in a desert.
So I lead the alive funerals of unbelievers,
I'll chant with the dead at your weddings close to your ears.

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