Like a precious moment, I have sinned myself,
burnt like a crisp, tormented thyself.
No one's there, only darkness present
like the one who created me, the omnipresent.
And time flies like scarred hands
writhing like flies in post mortem lands,
like floating melancholic thoughts unformed,
unorganized, soaring, flying, stormed.
Am I crazy? Am I insane?
Am I flying outside my hallowed plane?
No one could answer my questions;
I am like no other across these nations.
Like a precious moment, I have sinned myself,
burnt like a crisp, not saving thyself.