The Origin of Agony

So you let them rest, the never forgotten fields
And down to the shall-be-idle acres of the past
Crows fall as if they were rotten battlegrounds
Digging their beaks into the dirt, searching
For old, rusty roots which once were veins
That ran through this living corpse, straight
To the heart of falsehood, distress and disbelief

When they, in their sateless hunger, peck one
All its burden awakes crying, aching, longing
For a chance to attract total attention
they burn down the insulations, which cupped
their hands around these sacred wounds and
Send their overwhelming messages through synapses
And the neural network of sleepless nerves

Such painful memories are like an avalanche
Tearing scars and furrows of sorrow into the skin
Greying, thinning the hair, weakening the mind
Drawing wrinkles on once so beautiful faces
Draining the blood from warm, living parts of the body
Leaving a bitter taste of gall in the mouth after sleep
‚Cause they only rage when you cannot keep them

These crows are ministers of self-responsibility
For nothing inside you wants the past to be forgotten
And if you don’t work it out, they will mob you
They will pound and peck, wound and wreck, eat and feed
Until your heart beats in falsehood, distress and disbelief
So till the fields of memories, the origin of agony
Till them and grow yourself a sprout of hope

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