I feel as if I have been buried alive
For the best part of five hundred years
My body
encased in a mountain of waste
Until one day my face reappears
**** bends with the years
that it spends
In positions tormenting my soul
But now they are free to emancipate
me
From the celibacy of the soul
So turn in your grave
Hold back the incoming
rain
**** wind in my face like the linen and lace
Are surrounding **** like
****
Fresh air in my lungs **** sharing his songs
**** through the grass
New blood in my
veins like Red Indian rain
Stripping us of all shame we possess
With tears in my eyes (and
with anguish) I cry:
