The tumult, shaking the mind, sinking it into an abyss…
Beneath the wry fragments of a face
And the shrouds of broken imaginations,
Shadowing the only window of hope
The remains of the cataclysm
Swept the parched hills
And the hot dry valleys of the mind;
Emptying its ideas,
Turning to a blank and barren core.
But where from will life originate
in this dreary desert sand?
Just, but a fight remains,
Against a force, too vice
Torn, broken and wounded
Falling on the way
Half dead, half alive!
When will the green joys sway in the breeze?
When will the the rain bring its cool drops?
When will the ray of hope shine thorough?
When will I find myself?