My life is made of emotions,   passions and horrors, 'cause when you truly   live you can even fall into deep pain   My bed is made of small fresh leaves,   moving slowly like a requiem   My temple is made of dark gloomy trees,   coming loose along a black oval path   My chant is a desperate and irreverent elegy,   composed in honour of those who have no reserve and fear   Hordes of maleficent and false sins come back upon me.   Shall I ever let my mind wander over the sad effect   this filthy disease causes to my limbs and to my heart?   I believe the persistence of the thin line of hope is worth this effort   I believe its benefice can reach the intensity   of full and perpetual delight   Nothing is true, all is allowed   In every dramatic situation there is   a subtended element of absurdity and humor   Every dogma contains something unhealthy and corrosive   Our identities change every day with our memories   We are not always what we really are, 'cause we reinvent ourselves   We change our skin and consistence   And we lie with innocence, trusting our memory.