Guess where I've been today?
Where we used to shout.
Ten years before this ageless present,
the monster is still alive and there's no peace yet.
And on the benches on which we wrote,
in semi-darkness and without thinking,
all the lyrics from Heroes
with the mistakes of a teenager,
they are still there.
And even now
it's still out of my control,
and it's both problem and solution,
that the scream is always lurking around
and is the answer.
And still now
only shouting and fiction
can turn off
the lights of my dark alert.
I've got a knife and is made of plastic,
where there used to be metal,
and that weird book that expelled you from nursery;
I had to burn its pages.
And on the irons that dispel
the most shocking fall
there still are the two initials
we inscribed with a pair of compasses.
They are there.
Vertical and transverse,
I'm a scream and I'm a crystal,
just the middle ground,
that you hated so much
when you repeated to me that
"it will destroy both you and me
and only a shout will help us".
You said "it's easy" and used to start.
And indeed the shout always comes back,
and it will die with us,
cold and brief like a line
written in an animal language.
And it's always there.
It will destroy both you and me
and only a shout will help us.
And now it isn't easy;
you used to start.
Vertical and transverse,
I'm a scream and I'm a crystal,
just the middle ground,
that you hated so much
when you prompted me to howl.
And now it's over, there's peace now,
oh, there's peace now.
It's over now, now there's peace,
oh, now there's peace.
For whom did I scream?
I know it and you don't;
you didn't ask.
You never did it, no.