When can we, yeah can we, work it out? Meditation just makes you more strung out I wish you had a guru to tell you to let it go, let it go. I wanna walk through the park in the dark Men are scared that women will laugh at them I wanna walk through the park in the dark Women are scared that men will kill them I hold my keys Between my fingers. I wanna walk through the park in the dark Men are scared that women will laugh at them I wanna walk through the park in the dark Women are scared that men will kill them. Your desperation stinks I can smell it on your breath A certain absolut anosmic Got yourself to blame for this. Not really it seems. The nice lady next door talks of green beds and all the nice things that she wants to plant in them.
This place a palace of light careworn with shade Of silence and affectation a token of our trade After that here you and I lie wreathed in flames All over a animation lived by making up new games Of gazes and whispers. I absence you to know I still adoration you Even though we've been dancing on broken glass, Parade all your memories, for the moments we collective Never fade away. I want you to know I still love you When I walk down the recall lane Where the night swears its love to the stars There bidding be no more tears today, hey hey. We shared a penchant designed for cyanide praise Fashioned our armours of empathy's malaise And all of so as to hurt, and all of those words that we said You'd think we poisoned the ground on which we tread But the lining is grey. The best of intentions will not see the road paved The aim of illusions, who could ever be saved What's left behind in the storms that we braved The troubles we find and the chances we waived.
Siddhartha learned something new on every action of his path, for the earth was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sun escalate over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant coast with its palm-trees. At night, he saw the stars in the atmosphere in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating akin to a boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and brook, the glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant high mountains which were blue and pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice-field. All of this, a thousand-fold and colourful, had all the time been there, always the sun after that the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more en route for Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive blanket before his eyes, looked upon all the rage distrust, destined to be penetrated after that destroyed by thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essence lay beyond, on the erstwhile side of, the visible.