Thinking darkness can be bright,
Hoping it can act as light,
Asking if guiltless people,
Can summon their inner demons,

Never letting the good but bad,
Make us, drive us crazy, mad.
Believing the lost and empty souls,
Can fulfill our rotting holes.

We, naive, trusting nations,
Have too strong temptations,
Lying our eyes can see,
Brains and heads disagree.

Tribes of forlorn hearts,
Eventually fall apart.
Not because they couldn’t fight,
But they didn’t see the light.

After many countless battles,
All those bloody dazzles,
Seemed like wastes of time,
Waists of love, what a grime.

Dirty hands, mouths and souls,
Avoiding burning trees and coals,
Wishing to destroy the burden,
They would accept every bargain.

Clean ones control the dirty,
Using paper, leaves absurdly,
Forcing the young unbred,
to give them their only bread.

Soon or later, empty ones ask for more,
Not for two, nor three, but four.
So the story goes on and on,
‘Till somebody declares a war.

Nothing saves no one’s life,
If they lead a battle with a knife,
But a difference between warriors exists,
Some fight for money, others are just pissed.

Work of dirty hands was granted,
For those who never wanted,
To hear the thoughts of those,
Who usually never chose,

Their happiness or their smiles,
When even for a while,
Cleans could feel dirties’ pains,
Could feel the blood, the veins.

Wars don’t end , don’t stop,
There isn’t someone wanting the top,
who knows the struggle to loose,
fight, kill, abuse.

Cleans come again,
Take over, forget their brain,
Ask, take, nothing, take,
Make some hearts ache.

Everyone knows their place,
Their spot, their space.
So everything repeats itself,
That’s us, crazy men.

Controlled, not by brothers,
Or by foreign others,
But from money,
Always tasting funny.