The road I was to have chosen,
Has gone, withdrawn…topsy-turvy now.
The path, only lit by fiery coals await,
In a forlorn land, feet burning, just out of snow.
You have taken away my staff,
Handed me a sceptre, worthy of kings, as you say.
The ghastly coronation of mine, gifted to me,
Head dizzied by thorns, and I am to govern…your deaths.
I chant my Lord’s name and walk through the blaze.
Bodily strength taken away, my mind your palace.
Governed by the immortal charlatan,
And played on by his children, blue from pain.
The silent philosopher turned to a fiery monster,
I reject your plains, your plateaus, your gloom.
Yet, this ghastly coronation, gifted to me,
Only sours the world, leaves us in doom.
I gift you no new morns, no new dreams,
Enlightened by your fire, fettered not to any whims.
I am no Messiah, the thorns yet are mine,
Come Babylonians, let’s bury this ghastly coronation, it’s past its time.