Just like a diamond on the forehead
staring at the ground,
my lucid violence is coming
twisting all around,
My quite damnation is waiting
for a punishment:
the wiser's compassion and laughters
and confinement.
As windows steams on the evening
of a winter day,
or stars keep crying in the ceiling
their blasphemous prayers,
I could still hear my voice screaming
from the other room
and could remember the close hugs
of a tired womb.

I was still living the brightest days,
I was still living the brightest days.
The more you push me to the light
The more my blackest part is bright.

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