To The Low Woman That Once Was Mother.

You do not hear?
You do not know?
You do not understand?
Do not speak, so!

It is more simple than anyone think
It is just highly hard on your unorganized head,
Paralyzed dreams, celebration of desires, feast of negativity

Your fields do not bloom any longer,
Your heaven do not know any longer what is to be blue,
just your inner.

You do not live?
You do not try?
You do not love?
So, do not come talk to me of achieving goals,
because it is what you do not have the science the most,
the question which you do not even walk behind the answer
carry on, feet after feet, blindfolded eyes

Right and wrong...
...what is this?
this smells what?
Is this to eat?

Lost child,
your canvas is not an opus.

Still stuck in your own world
Denying, ignoring, making yourself innocent
While everything is in your hands and front,
While I scream, sing, cry, what is truly real to you
I feel just that my duty in here is with you.

Is with your mistakes, you defy
and carry on denying, denying me
Saying 'no' to the love that once was pure delighting.

And everything happens,
everything comes back
To everyone of us,
To me,
To you
But all your mania of superiority,
even more your inferiority and ignorance stops you.

Oh, low woman that once was mother,
your canvas is not an opus.