Today the earth is black, doesn’t matter what you feel, I can see.
And tomorrow will always agree with the solitude of my soul.
No righteous or virtuous children would ever be capable of understanding my evident selection of preferences, not even my conscience, so to speak. Nor a good-hearted splendor will seek the sun brightly infusing life over this inexistent earth.
Maybe the shadows of resistance will no longer remember what I see. Darkness will remain visible seeking through the darkest horizons of my eyes. The pervasive unhappiness of my terrestrial eyes would trigger thoughts of foolishness and desire able to prevent rage and malice in the sentimental devices that I contemplate before my personal world of anxiety, affliction and uneasiness.
Can good songs heal the soul and distract the heart? If the convoluted shadows of disappointment strongly affirm that the invariable sickness that protests over the revengeful stagnation of my audacious disappointment will provide the attestation of a nefarious infestation of inexistent realms, then these peaceful days will inevitably be over. My restless years will start to disappear. So I think, perhaps, that this would be the inextricable result.
But it’s not correct to complain. The mordacious confluence of my sincerity can drain thoughts of serenity, as well as external pacts of melancholic ambivalence.
The antagonistic healing of a suffering that never leaves. These answers will no longer understand the content of my soul. At least for a considerable amount of time. Relegated to a mortifying silence, no one would dare to declare the dead of the night to be my hostile impatience.
Tomorrow will be the day that the whole world will stay black.
Tomorrow will be an especially indefinite day. We can never rest at the dissemination of an evil horde of incongruous maleficence. Now we are drawn to a time where it is impossible to set back. I understand tomorrow will be as fragile as a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow I will seek the eternity at a hole in the sky.
Wagner
And tomorrow will always agree with the solitude of my soul.
No righteous or virtuous children would ever be capable of understanding my evident selection of preferences, not even my conscience, so to speak. Nor a good-hearted splendor will seek the sun brightly infusing life over this inexistent earth.
Maybe the shadows of resistance will no longer remember what I see. Darkness will remain visible seeking through the darkest horizons of my eyes. The pervasive unhappiness of my terrestrial eyes would trigger thoughts of foolishness and desire able to prevent rage and malice in the sentimental devices that I contemplate before my personal world of anxiety, affliction and uneasiness.
Can good songs heal the soul and distract the heart? If the convoluted shadows of disappointment strongly affirm that the invariable sickness that protests over the revengeful stagnation of my audacious disappointment will provide the attestation of a nefarious infestation of inexistent realms, then these peaceful days will inevitably be over. My restless years will start to disappear. So I think, perhaps, that this would be the inextricable result.
But it’s not correct to complain. The mordacious confluence of my sincerity can drain thoughts of serenity, as well as external pacts of melancholic ambivalence.
The antagonistic healing of a suffering that never leaves. These answers will no longer understand the content of my soul. At least for a considerable amount of time. Relegated to a mortifying silence, no one would dare to declare the dead of the night to be my hostile impatience.
Tomorrow will be the day that the whole world will stay black.
Tomorrow will be an especially indefinite day. We can never rest at the dissemination of an evil horde of incongruous maleficence. Now we are drawn to a time where it is impossible to set back. I understand tomorrow will be as fragile as a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow I will seek the eternity at a hole in the sky.
Wagner
