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What do I know?
All I do is row,
row over my own world.
Cry out like a crow,
in the dark,
holding the arc made of rock,
that is my way.
But if I may say,
this is my way,
how wrong could I be?
How wrong should I need to be?
It scares me, stares me down -
phantom of knowledge, how you loom over me.
Like a crow on the head
of the bust of Pallas Athena.
Like all the things I haven't achieved.
It is the macabre leather,
or rather the macabre woman.
Better I let her in my thought.
Enter to entertain,
but why taint my vision with false prophecy.
Why taint my vision?
Why fill it with corrosion?
And what is there left?
Heft on my breath, ink that I can no longer suppress.
Should I press on the rest, of the way until I fall to my rest?
Am I really without the vision, without the crest?
And theft is all that’s left.
I open the one book I cannot forget.
So many truths that I can't understand.
Yet I still stand 'till I can. It keeps me on land.
A thick deadly leather in my head.
Bad omen, not glory on my head.
The one thing I can't break apart, not yet.
So let me try, let me test.
May the macabre leather be my crest,
and rest that I have found the best in myself.
Or nothing but a thick leather,
macabre leather in front of my vision.
God, tell me, what is my way!?
Then it burst out of my chest.
Mezei Csaba XII. H
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