The story of my life
Does anyone know life, more than he who dwells at the bottom of the mountain? Does anyone know life more than he who lives by the graveyard? What does the eagle have to tell the chick? What has a lion to tell a gazelle? Oh the story of my life, it is not told by fireworks and explosions but with whispers and faint strokes of the brush. It is not told by wails in the night but with whispers in the day, drowned by birds and animals. The story of my life is not a legend or an epic. Just a simple story, yarns spun from the strings of love nourished by simple brooks. It is the tale of muffled speech told by the tongues of the dumb and tears of the unemotional. It is just a simple web, spun by the dying fires of the evening and told over the sinking sun. I am he that they talk about in hushed tones. In my story, the night hungers to come in as soon as day slips away and the struggle begins; the struggle to outlive the dark but it always gives its best to rip me apart. I always try to fight, for I sure know that I am stronger than my tormenter but alas, the story of my life is that of a hot poker on skin, a hot nail on an ulcer, but today, today, I shall sit and cry to the last. Today I shall lay the table and invite sorrow, my guest for the night. I shall indulge to the full. I shall make merry and dance by the fire, for tomorrow, my fingers will no longer be too numb to pick a pen. Tomorrow my drums will not be too heavy to bang a tune and my guitar will be rid of dust gathered by age. For many a day, they have told the story of my life, but tomorrow, my tongue will search and gather a tune. My heart shall seek and remember a move. When tomorrow comes, I shall drink of the main cup, not wait for them to fill my mug with dregs. It is not my hour yet but sure as the sun, my hour shall come, and when it does, they better run and hide. Oh the beauty I will become, when fireflies grace my name with light and little gusts disperse my story all through the world. Oh what joy, when the tiny green shoots suppressed by envy and hatred rise from the soil, soils of a land I tilled and cultivated. I shall rejoice, oh I shall, when soft droplets of rain touch the surface and wipe the sorrow from my face, and remind me of what was and what will never be. The story of my life shall be sung, and I will be the composer. Roar, roar; let it echo all over the plains. Let them all hear it. Let them believe again, that the lion outdid the slumber. The tale of my life shall be told, and I shall be the glad that I told it myself.
Does anyone know life, more than he who dwells at the bottom of the mountain? Does anyone know life more than he who lives by the graveyard? What does the eagle have to tell the chick? What has a lion to tell a gazelle? Oh the story of my life, it is not told by fireworks and explosions but with whispers and faint strokes of the brush. It is not told by wails in the night but with whispers in the day, drowned by birds and animals. The story of my life is not a legend or an epic. Just a simple story, yarns spun from the strings of love nourished by simple brooks. It is the tale of muffled speech told by the tongues of the dumb and tears of the unemotional. It is just a simple web, spun by the dying fires of the evening and told over the sinking sun. I am he that they talk about in hushed tones. In my story, the night hungers to come in as soon as day slips away and the struggle begins; the struggle to outlive the dark but it always gives its best to rip me apart. I always try to fight, for I sure know that I am stronger than my tormenter but alas, the story of my life is that of a hot poker on skin, a hot nail on an ulcer, but today, today, I shall sit and cry to the last. Today I shall lay the table and invite sorrow, my guest for the night. I shall indulge to the full. I shall make merry and dance by the fire, for tomorrow, my fingers will no longer be too numb to pick a pen. Tomorrow my drums will not be too heavy to bang a tune and my guitar will be rid of dust gathered by age. For many a day, they have told the story of my life, but tomorrow, my tongue will search and gather a tune. My heart shall seek and remember a move. When tomorrow comes, I shall drink of the main cup, not wait for them to fill my mug with dregs. It is not my hour yet but sure as the sun, my hour shall come, and when it does, they better run and hide. Oh the beauty I will become, when fireflies grace my name with light and little gusts disperse my story all through the world. Oh what joy, when the tiny green shoots suppressed by envy and hatred rise from the soil, soils of a land I tilled and cultivated. I shall rejoice, oh I shall, when soft droplets of rain touch the surface and wipe the sorrow from my face, and remind me of what was and what will never be. The story of my life shall be sung, and I will be the composer. Roar, roar; let it echo all over the plains. Let them all hear it. Let them believe again, that the lion outdid the slumber. The tale of my life shall be told, and I shall be the glad that I told it myself.
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