Written by Sammy Friday
It’s all dark, and there’s no bright cloud,
It’s the cold nocturnal hour of the world and
Even in my heart, happiness bleeds,
My body’s a testament of grief,
This body is a house, housing trepidation and pain tethered to my soul,
The world’s a metaphors for the wilderness of sin,
I’ve spent my hands praying for a mana,
But this place is a golgotha of dreams, only good at fruiting loss.
Commotion no longer lies in the blade, but sits on the bridges
That connects the world.
There’s no glade coming forth, and so,
I drift up to my dreamworld, where I learnt how to sing,
To shut the channels of chaos and bar the gate of jeopardy.
Now I know how to sing even in the tempestuous hour of day,
This is what the night thought me,
To tame the flame with songs in a milieu of chaos.