My soul sung once, whispering with the trees and the angels,
It lifted beyond the soaring birds and sat with the gods,
It knew peace, once.
Now my soul screams, the silent scream of the tortured,
Who knows that there is no-one left to hear,
And no-one who will answer.
The scream is just a release, a blood-red slash of sound
Like the razor-sliced skin that surrounds it.
My soul cries out to the wilderness, forgotten by life
And calling on death.
It cries that there is no respite, that it's tired and cannot go on,
But there is nothing left to comfort it but a knife and a flame and
The warm arms of oblivion.
The torture must end sometime, but all my soul wants is to sing again,
To fly above the torment of this life and remember what it is supposed
To feel like.
There is no singing here, just screaming. No wine, just blood.
No life, but no death either - even death has forsaken my soul.