Who are you, you who mock me with the proprietary of ownership?
Who are you, you who ask of me, that thing that I cannot yield?
Who are you, you who ask of me to walk the path?
I wonder, who you are, you who ask me, to estrange myself!
Who am I, living this alter life?
Not for a penny nor for peace,
Yet, I live, if it can be called that,
A life in the yonder, beneath the tombs of hearts.
Who are you, you who whisper endearments with a whip?
Who are you, you who hold me in shackles, in an iron grip?
Who are you, you who put me on a pedestal, from where the land is a distant speck?
Who are you, you who choke me, with my own breath?
Who am I, laboring through the days, counting one and then, another,
Marking myself with the welts of despair and hurt,
Unable to break, unable to yield,
Unable to love, unable to hate.
Who are you, who am I?
Dancing through the twisted paths.
Strangers or friends? Neither or both,
Littering the paths, with disdain.
Ah, the turpitudes of fate, gleeful in the ignorance of its dance,
Cast its magic on a fateful day,
The whispers of promises, the truths, the lies,
Condemning a bitter life, to a wicked truth.
Mirror, dear, dear mirror of life,
Reflecting souls in that silver armor,
Show me mine. Alas, it looks soulless!
Wonder, what do I do? What do I do?
