You see your life flashing through your mind,
you're getting crazy of these tensions felt inside,
all that was yours, could you remember, all you've left behind,
who are you? Shall it be insight?
Infant cry, you hear yourself, paralyzed by the idea that was you who made this life, building on a plot which is called life.
Is this true a reality, if, why, and was it mine own, or of my mind, are we the same?
Two worlds, two parts.
Inside you see the angels fighting with the evil,
you see: they are fighting against themselves, they are only
a mirror of you, cast in shadow for one half, the other side enlightened.
And creation and destruction accompany each other, and you see your world of innation.
Are you already born?
What is your backward sense of time?
You have lived for thousands of years now, are an old man,
an ancienty, and a baby, in his early days, simultaneous, and there shall be no difference.
And you hear the neverending voice of the person who you are, who is sleeping, who has been sleeping.
And you are waiting, may it be eternity, unto the ring of the clock, and that you may be evoked by yourself, and come to life.
But the edge is sharp, and you may fall through the black hole in your soul, and be lost.