Image

They kept changing you… fine, whatever. They lied when they said: “It's free.” At first all of them, in a crowd, tried to build that image of yours. You were flashy, contradictory. Your reason mooed: “Go on, shout… At anyone, or just because. Let them know — this one's no fool.” Stubborn and hard as stale bread. Against this sheaf the sickle broke… But here's the trouble: that attempt sealed the lips shut, dead tight. Not the ones that give the voice a way out, and sometimes, yes, they lie. Truth speaks through the lips. It's dead. It's held captive. And light through the sieve of flesh whispers softly: “Anyone in there? And if there is, then show yourself…” All of life goes into this…