Riding the road,
Gates walking.
I count the days
Until I catch that long line .
I look through your glasses
To all the birds landing on my head.
I keep in my farm only those laying golden eggs.
I am reading my way,
A screw making its will in the wood of a cross.
I choose your head.
Mine I left it at your door.
What should I do with a stone?
Menu for the kings I do not want .
Some leftovers from your table are enough .
Your breath to fill me.
My heart may stop.
But your blood be pumped all over the canals of my town.
A flood I want for your rice
As I sweat on open land.
Please bury my idol!