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: