I can’t even be angry with You,
for You’re perfect.
Every time I feel trapped
it’s not circle,
my life is moon-centric.
I’m tired of running in courses
like blue stellar ships searching life,
I reach for the summer in solstice
and find myself lonely each time.
I can’t even argue with You,
for You’re silence.
I stir and I stir solitude,
I fail raising questions in ballads,
my fingers they roam and seek truth…
Who carries our fears back to heaven,
on horses of fire and flint?
Who sings when we’re hungry and silent,
when tears run on cheeks carved in wind?