Up on the hill

Spiritual lover, endless death
wrote myself my epitaph,
to the king of kings
debuting on my funeral to be
Where, who, why would we all want to grow up?

No difference if you are a child or an adult
I will go now and come back
I will sink into my misery
and rise again up

Where will we be when this year will die out?

He kicked his ass over the toilet seat
he knocked his head on the mirror
punched the shiny doorknob
and once again flushed himself

Florist drink your blood
Rosen garden of cleaved heads
and pain keeps me awake each night
closer and closer to my people
I sense their pain
I will die with them alone
And everything else will prove to be words
once again the prophet will grow immune to his own poison
Whereas he drinks it everyday
in small minor quantities
increasing the possibility of suicide each day
and night by night
where the flowers die on the hasty shadowed fields
when the donkey mount hunches
and the rider falls
and keeps falling
and nothing goes well
and everything is happy
and crazy
and insane
and lost
forever lost


How quiet is it there up on the hill
how calm, peacefully and quiet it is
up there on the hill
how calm and frightening...