Misbeliever

If they ask you, who you are,

would you tell them your name,

or the games you play..?

If they ask me I would tell them,

I am a yellow light,

in the darkest sky ,

I am waiting for the wolves to howl,

to take me home tonight.

They tell me I died of fever,

and they called me a misbeliever.

Believer of the wrong,

believer of dreams,

believer of death,

but not its finality,

Oh! hold me down gravity!

for I fly not just in my dreams,

but in my reality.

What is my dream then you ask?

what is it that I think

that makes me fly,

makes me howl,

makes me shine,

makes me a misbeliever,

It is my freedom ,

It is my hope to ride the golden chariot of the seasons,

It is to scream loud ,

and not die in the eyes of those around me ,

running around in the woods barefoot,

without a dead air to breathe ,

a smokeless sky ,

a blue stream ,

its the heaven which is now forbidden on earth it seems

That is my dream .

Dream that keeps me alive,

Make me a gypsy ,

Make me one of a kind ,

This is my simple dream for which I am ready to die.