The hurt in my voice,

and pain on my tongue,

concludes the overall judgment of my ancestors' trouble.

The hardship of young and deliverance of old.

How can we perform a miracle for those eyes that can't separate?

Always pronounced dead even though,

it was well lived.

A confiding coffin, my gentle home.

Removing my wrath filled barrier and enveloping the joy of never ending irony.

Eclipse that of solitary peace.

Who can prevail over my deceased happiness? 

Who can support the stiff dancing motion of my eyelids? 

No longer able to see the vibrancy of day,

If black and white continues to enslave me.