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Description
But this soil is rotten,
as our hopes are dried up.

Even though our love should be enough
I find myself asking for something more.

I can't fool my bodily instincts.
I can't erase my cravings.

And now I find myself
ad the end of the road
asking to be in the beggining,
for what I begged for so long was given
but in exchange, of all else I was stripped.

This grains of swamp drip
through my geographical fingers
as the sun comes out.

Life seems to have a harsh sense of humor.
Time won't stop for us.
It didn't stop the culprits of this madness,
why should it stop for us to survive?

Back in my days
you could hear the sound of the wind
combing the green bristle
populating the hills.

Now the place was usurped
by coarse sand and powder clay
but not a single bit of shrub
would accompany them.

And now I recall
of harmonious voices and strings
adorning those afternoons
of crop raising and sugary teas.

But I did say,
I "recalled".
For all those days
I'm afraid they won't come back.

And now I will by means of cognition
or some hidden skill gifted by aging
drip through the eternal afternoon breeze
and travel through uranium skies
'till my eyes won't see the dying sun
or the unending winter of this doomed world.

May the hopes of those buried
grow the seed of tomorrow.

RIP
Jaredja Finnel

Description
But this soil is rotten,
as our hopes are dried up.

Even though our love should be enough
I find myself asking for something more.

I can't fool my bodily instincts.
I can't erase my cravings.

And now I find myself
ad the end of the road
asking to be in the beggining,
for what I begged for so long was given
but in exchange, of all else I was stripped.

This grains of swamp drip
through my geographical fingers
as the sun comes out.

Life seems to have a harsh sense of humor.
Time won't stop for us.
It didn't stop the culprits of this madness,
why should it stop for us to survive?

Back in my days
you could hear the sound of the wind
combing the green bristle
populating the hills.

Now the place was usurped
by coarse sand and powder clay
but not a single bit of shrub
would accompany them.

And now I recall
of harmonious voices and strings
adorning those afternoons
of crop raising and sugary teas.

But I did say,
I "recalled".
For all those days
I'm afraid they won't come back.

And now I will by means of cognition
or some hidden skill gifted by aging
drip through the eternal afternoon breeze
and travel through uranium skies
'till my eyes won't see the dying sun
or the unending winter of this doomed world.

May the hopes of those buried
grow the seed of tomorrow.

RIP
Jaredja Finnel