This
has nothing to do with me; I
want to run away from here. These clothes aren’t mine. These
wounds aren’t mine. If you want to heal them, heal;
take
the chance and wish to be happy; all
I want is to have a chance to breathe free.
Freedom, I was born with this dream, it
flows through my veins and runs in my blood like a steep water, like
the free Mures River, my best friend, my only
friend from childhood when I was looking after cows on its meadows, my only
protector and eventually last
solution. Yet, someone, out there
gave me the chance to get out of there and demand
for a second chance. To say
this has nothing to do with me. Manipulation
was Your weapon. Wounds and pain and sorrow
was Your unbeatable tool
to face them, to resist
he learnt his lesson far too well. After three years in their prisons
with snakes swimming between his legs, in the cold, dark water, with blood
running from his flesh, he learn
that the best way to get what you want is to bring the others where you want.
Manipulation
feeling guilty, feeling sorrow, trying
to achieve endlessly unfulfilled wishes
of the others
never enough, never satisfactory; never
again!
I wish
to get away from here, and she
won’t join me. She
who carries my baby, won’t come with me, won’t join me, freedom
isn’t flowing through her veins, too; there is
madness and sorrow and unhappiness driving her.
This is
the mother of my child
oh, take this child
and put her on a cross
it doesn’t make sense
to feel the pain of the world
if she won’t ever be
free
a full time Jesus
or something.
This
has nothing to do with me
my happiness
is to tell myself
that I am peaceful and the world is peaceful and
I dream of understanding and compromises
while my kid climbs on the cross
on her own