you don't recognise yourself, / everything is lost like a fish in Lethean space. / you have mistaken truth for love again
But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
Morning sun, and its endearing ardor swathes my spent body, I awake a ghost.
