But you say "It's hard, way too hard,"
But you say "It's hard, way too hard,"
But you say "It's hard, way too hard,"
I don't respond . . .
Red sails take us to sea, far, far, far through the waves,
Real liberty is that in which you are kilometers from shore.
Without words, read in my eyes the hymn and the emblem and the flags.
Nobody from here goes down as a hero. Neither here, nor in other lands.
The most expensive images created on money are more empty than emptiness.
Those who believe in luck and stars, for nothing, say grace
And inversely, backwards, from the walk pours out, verse by verse, the bill
Not for your sins, not for heaven, not for hell, but clearly for eternity . . . No?
For the sensations now, for the moment.
You believe in plans more than 50/50, meaning that you believe in waste
Terrible waste, real and sad, happens from "yesterday" until "tomorrow."
If you lie and say that you won't do it, but others believe you -- you lie alone. The lie remains.
413 days after the first season.
Don't keep in mind far too much that I can tell you how I feel.
Many have changed, but I am still the son of peasants,
The wheel still spins slowly, the slowness heavily Bacovian.
Snipers? No. But we have a scope.
We have metal in our voices
And meat in our diets.
Self-critical jesters!
No, don't think, it's far too early.
Maybe another day? Another day, another problem.
But maybe then when rust settles on your shoulders?
But maybe then when you are drunk and believe in tricks? (Jester)
- Empty, broken?
- But replaced!
- With white threads?
- Just as we agreed.
- You aren't lying somehow?
- No, I'm not lying!
- And where are you going?
- Nowhere. I am.
...
413 days after the first season.
Don't keep in mind far too much that I can tell you how I feel.
Many have changed, but I am still the son of peasants,
The wheel still spins slowly, the slowness heavily Bacovian.