Cysted Depressive Existence
The sweat of their foreheads boils for awaking
From a storm, the traces of your being
Is an intensive death blow,
where your life is made...
Made for the other,
And you can not solve.
Blind human existence, just blind to the
Real passage that carries the life.
Blood runs through your veins,
It's the appearance of the power that flows in your mind,
It's the depressive thought of abnormal strength
With incense and bones which remains another intent.
