There's something crying in my sheets
and it's not me, not part of me.
Hundreds of heavens come to see it
wondering what is it, why so hard to hear
...how the stronger of the hunting fevers
grows inside this.
The shadows belong to the city and are coming to become the spin.
Ruin they whisper, the ruin is what it means.
There's something crying in my bed
and it's not crying for me, not for me.
Being the last thing to believe
the culture of the fire sets the darkness
that I was searching... to find it here
just so close, it licks my blood,
it licks my pain to rise.
The shadows belong to the city and we have no walls to climb.
No unenlightened places to hide.
There's something crying over the white quilt
and it's not going to live, not going to die.
The bastard son of my destiny
betrayed the ransom from the sky
making unclear what it's going to befall.
But my hands are surrounding its neck to smother its crying
while summoning the gods
explaining to the heavens the true danger is diving inside this little pot
and trying to avert them believe,
believe them in it.
But the shadows of the city bring the torture to shelter its breath,
and the masters of heavens, with their huge knowledge
again have been tricked.
Who would have dared to say that the evil would be born in this haven of light.
The first nourishment of the shadows' lord is on my bed
and it's me, it has always been me.
KPV / Juliol 2013
