Some people coming out of the grave
With hands covered in dirt and mud
Screaming out their thirst for bloody love
Been waiting under the ground, all these years
The sun is burning its yellow through the barrier
Our skin cannot hold any longer, and we will melt
In the last dreams we thought would never be evident
The grocery keeper calls the police while they are burnt
But justice isn’t all that necessary to be cautious of
When its root of idea is being mixed up like dough
Upon them all the blames are going to be bestowed
These kinds of angels whose wings ain’t made of heaven
Entice me more, lure me out the door
I can’t really care if I’m not really sure
Watching the sun sets down in the ocean
Makes me feel like walking in infinity
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem