I measure every grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes I wonder if It weighs like mine Or has an easier size. I wonder if they bore it long Or did it just begin I could not tell the Date of Mine It feels so old a pain I wonder if it hurts to live And if they have to try And whether could they choose between It would not be to die I note that some gone patient long At length, renew their smile An imitation of a light That has so little oil I wonder if when years have piled Some thousands on the harm That hurt them early such a lapse Could give them any balm Or would they go on aching still Through centuries of nerve Enlightened to a larger pain In contrast with the love The grieved are many I am told There is the various cause Death is but one and comes but once And only nails the eyes There's grief of want and grief of cold A sort they call "Despair" There's banishment from native eyes In sight of native air And though I may not guess the kind Correctly yet to me A piercing comfort it affords In passing calvary To note the fashions of the cross And how they're mostly worn Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own

What is a gift to you is just life going through - your eyes can not see, for your grief all bluries... You are so tired that rest is like fire, burnin' what is left of your dried desire : in your empty breast lies your lovely sire; in your overweighted breast, you made him a prisoner. Gisèle, don't be sorry, please, be sure he's safe, ma belle, in the holy burly. Paralysed actions... your will burns, vibrates and calls your turn ! You will be quiet delivered from your guilt. Now fishes in your net are free to help and built.

(I cut parts of the poem of W. Blake) How sweet i'd roam from field to field tasting all the summer's pride 'till i, the prince of love beheld who in the sunny beams did glide He chewed lillies for my hair blushing roses for my brows he let me through his gardens fair where all his golden pleasures grow How sweet i'd roam from field to field tasting all the summer's pride 'till i, the prince of love beheld who in the sunny beams did glide With sweet may dues my wings were wet Phoebus fired my vocal rage he caught me in his silken net shut me in his golden cage He loves to sit and hear me sing then's laughing and plays with me then streches out my golden wings and mocks my loss of liberty

Childhood is gone, so are fairy tales, even if you've got drones and an oblivion spell : my heart is not for sale, nor are my bones; i am seeking out no one but the company of stones... Those images and fantasies to drive minds blury and this evilish scenery to impress bullies... are they mendatory ?! We want some, though, until our time has come. Each and one of us who fights will be condamned, formated and respawned... Take a firm hold ! The last crunchy little thing is normal, banal - obviously jumpin' fences is lethal and gossips unstoppable. Never let silence rule. Farts smell like honey Heart says with money All i hear is me, me, me... You opress, you opress, you opress !! You wanna keep control : for struggle i call !

(This song contains quotes of a text on religions and individual responsability written by William Blake. His point was about being aware of the poetic genius hidden to the soul by religious dogmas.) All religions are one as a true method of knowledge so all religions... in outward form... Infinite variety by the ancients was called an angel, a spirit, a demon All men are alike in outward form but must intend truth a young lad shall speak from his heart but he must intend truth as there are no other known lands... as all men are alike so're religions

Atmospheres never seen before coming from nowhere like a sore we are tired and bored waiting to be slaugtered Hundreds of eyes pretend to hear whispers as in a rotten legend full of monsters Old recipies... I am, you are, we are... a strange disease... Pre-chewed ideas like sad vehicules at rush hour, parading in traffic circles. All thoughts are anticipated, a global reflex drives all complicated Each sentence is learned, assimilated; feets glued, sexes toyed, minds twisted. Feeding, rewarding, punishing : enjoy living the dream... Divided up comfort, rightfull uglyness, with a sphinter instead of nose on the face; Twitches coming from nowhere, contagious, indelebile, so predictable... Few parasites can condamn the whole organism : loosers hang around ! bang ! bang ! It will be called sedition but it is survival

Sweet Mary the first time she ever was there came to the bal room among the fair The young men and maidens around her throngue and these are the words upon every tongue : "An angel is here from the heavenly climes or again does return the golden times !" Her eyes outshined every brilliant ray, she opens her lips, 'tis the month of may... Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight (to augment with) sweet smiles all the joys of the night : nor one blushes to own to the rest of the fair, that sweet love and beauty are worthy our care. In the morning, the villagers, arose with delight and repeated with pleasure all the joys of the night and mary arose among friends to be free... Some said she was proud, some called her a whore, some, when she passed by, shut the door... A damped cold came over her, her blushes all fled, her lillies, her roses are blighted and shed ! Why was i born with a different face ? Why was i not born like this envious race ? Why did heaven adorn me with bountyfull hands and then set me dawn in an envious land ? ...to be weak as lamb, smooth as a dove and not to raise envy is called christian love... I will humble my beauty, i will not dress fine, i will keep from the bal and my eyes shall not shine, and if any girl's lover forsakes her for me : i will refuse him my hand and from envy be free... She went out in the morning, attired plain and neat; "Poor mary's gone mad" said the child in the street. She trembled and she wept, sitting on the bed side she forgot it was night, she trembled and she cried. She forgot it was night, she forgot it was morn - soft memory imprinted with faces of scorn. With faces of scorn and with eyes of disdain, like fool friends inhabiting mary's mild brain ! She remembers no face from the human divine : all faces have envy sweet mary but thine. And thine is a face of sweet love and despair, and thine a face of mild sorrow and care, and thine is a face of white terror and fear, that shall never be quiet 'till laid on its bier !!

Again and again, will i just nod my head again ? I had to feel my deadfull will if i wanted to kill it and stand still I won't cry 'cos i was already dead. No lullabies, nothing else to be said. Again, I had to pay my dues to be shure i was reborn again... Born... again. Will i ? will i just nod ?!? will I ? will i just nod ?!? will i just nod my head again ?

Whenever I enter more than mortal fire burns in my soul and does my song inspire Fresh from the duewy hill, the merry year smiles on my head, mounts its flaming car Around my young brows, the laurel rises a shade and rising glories beam around my head My feet are winged while over the duewy loan and i meet my maiden risen like the morn Oh bless those holy feet like angel's feet, Oh bless those limbs beaming with heavenly light ! Like an angel glittering in the sky, in times of innocence and holy joy : the joyfull sheperd stops his gratefull song to hear the music of an angel's tongue ! So when she speaks, the voice of heaven i hear... So when we walk, nothing impure comes near : each field seems eden, each calm retreat, each village seems the haunt of holy feet... But that sweet village where my black eyed maid closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade. Fresh from the duewy hill, the merry year smiles on my head, mounts its flaming car Around my young brows, the laurel rises a shade and rising glories beam around my head My feet are winged while over the duewy loan and i meet my maiden risen like the morn. Whenever I enter more than mortal fire burns in my soul and does my song inspire

When early morn walks forth in sober grey, then to my black eyed maid i haste away When evening sits beneath her dusky bower and gently sights away the silent hour... The village bell alarms, away i go and the vail darkens at my pensive woe. To that sweet village where my black eyed maid does drop a tear beneath the silent shade I turn my eyes and pensive as i go curse my black stars and bless my pleasing woe. Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees, whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze, I walk the village around if at her side a youth doth walks in stolen joy and pride ! I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe that made my love so high and me so low Oh Shall she ever prove false, his limbs I'd tear and throw all the pity in the burning air ! I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot then I'd die in peace and be forgot...